The single occupant of the room was himself a mingling of West and East. He was a Chinaman whose parchmentlike face would have befitted a Tibetan lama.
He was garbed in American clothing, but his garments were a somber black, save for his white shirt and collar, and the stiff, white cuffs that showed at his wrists.
He was Wing Toy, the modernesque Tong leader, under whose regime the devastating wars of Chinatown had come to an abrupt ending.
Moose Shargin and Garry Elvers stood in the presence of the Celestial big shot.
Wing Toy waved them to seats. Moose chose a curved Chinese chair. Garry rested himself upon a taboret.
The Chinaman looked peacefully at Moose, as though waiting for the gangster to state his errand. Moose responded.
“How’s the guy making out?” questioned the gang leader, inclining his head toward the opposite wall.
“As usual,” responded Wing Toy.
“That’s good,” commented Moose. “We’d figured on getting him out of here before this, but—”
“There is no hurry,” declared Wing Toy.