If Larry was watched or followed, he was not able to detect it, though he had no doubt the gang had some one of its members “shadowing” him. He reached Chinatown. The streets, as usual, were filled with shuffling Orientals, who seemed to have no particular object in view. Larry looked to see if he could catch a sight of Mr. Newton, or any of the detectives, but none was in sight.
He reached the building, and, with a heart that beat wildly in spite of his efforts to remain calm, he started up the stairs. He felt to see if the revolver was safe in the outside pocket of his coat. Mr. Newton had told him to place it there, and to fire it while the weapon was inside the pocket, since to draw it might cause some hasty action on the part of some member of the gang.
Larry gave a timid tap at the door with the rising sun painted on it. The portal instantly swung back, though no one appeared, and a voice called out:
“Come in, Larry.”
The young reporter entered. He found himself in a sort of corridor, at the end of which was a room, brightly-lighted, in spite of the fact that it was broad daylight outside.
“Go on into the room,” the voice directed, and Larry walked forward.
He found a number of men seated about a table. One wore gloves, and as they were not fastened, Larry had a glimpse of the hands they covered. The skin on them was blue, and Larry knew that at last he had run the blue-handed man to his lair. The others, and there were five of them, glanced sharply at the boy.
“Well, I see you’ve agreed to our terms,” said Perkins, who acted as spokesman.
“Yes,” said Larry, his voice trembling a little. “Where is my brother?”
“He’s safe,” was the reply. “You stick to your part of the agreement, and we will to ours. Where is your mother’s note?”