“She must be!” cried Dennison, alarmed. “Miss Norman?” he called, beating on the door.
No sound answered from within. Dennison pondered for a moment. Ling Foo also pondered—apprehensively. He suspected that some misfortune had befallen the young woman, for her kind did not go prowling alone round Shanghai at night. Slue-Foot! Should he utter his suspicion to this American officer? But if it should become a police affair! Bitterly he arraigned himself for disclosing his hand to Slue-Foot. That demon had forestalled him. No doubt by now he had the beads. Ten thousand devils pursue him!
Dennison struck his hands together, and by and by a sleepy Chinese boy came scuffling along the corridor.
“Talkee manager come topside,” said Dennison. When the manager arrived, perturbed, Dennison explained the situation.
“Will you open the door?”
The manager agreed to do that. The bedroom was empty. The bed had not been touched. But 78 there was no evidence that the occupant did not intend to return.
“We shall leave everything just as it is,” said Dennison, authoritatively. “I am her friend. If she does not return by one o’clock I shall notify the police and have the young lady’s belongings transferred to the American consulate. She is under the full protection of the United States Government. You will find out if any saw her leave the hotel, and what the time was. Stay here in the doorway while I look about.”
He saw the jade necklace reposing in the soap dish, and in an ironical mood he decided not to announce the discovery to the Chinaman. Let him pay for his cupidity. In some mysterious manner he had got his yellow claws on those infernal beads, and the rogue Cunningham had gone to him with a substantial bribe. So let the pigtail wail for his jade.
On the dresser he saw a sheet of paper partly opened. Beside it lay a torn envelope. Dennison’s heart lost a beat. The handwriting was his father’s!