The Chinaman was short, but heavy. He was attired in a black robe. Emblazoned on the back was a large golden dragon, the sign of the Wu-Fan. Words were being spoken by Ling Soo and Cleve heard them plainly.
“You are sure that it is safe,” Ling Soo was saying. “It must not be seen.”
“It is buried in a bottom table drawer,” declared Darley, in return. “Nothing of value lies there. No one would know its purpose. Do not worry, Ling Soo.”
“You are going back to your apartment now?”
“No. I shall not return until late.”
“Since no one will be there—” The rest of Ling Soo’s statement was lost. It died away as the men reached the entrance to the anteroom.
A buzz was all that Cleve could hear now. Ling Soo was gesticulating. Darley was shaking his head; then nodding as though in agreement. Cleve ducked as Ling Soo turned and came waddling back toward his inner room. He heard the door of the anteroom close. Then came a cackling laugh — the harsh chuckle that Ling Soo used when he was pleased.
Hiding, Cleve relied only on his ears. He heard talk close by; probably at the dragon doors. The words were uttered in Chinese, by Ling Soo. A short response in the same language came from the lips of Foy. The brass doors clanged shut.
A slight, scarcely audible movement now told that Foy alone was in the hallway. Cleve peered forth to see the Chinese servant headed toward the anteroom. He went through the door. It closed behind him. Cleve was alone.
What should he do now? Intuitively, Cleve waited, and, while he remained, he reflected.