The flurry of our passage had begun to draw in behind us in a back-lash wave. The house seemed to hum under our feet. A door opened on a gust of muttering voices. Down by the entrance to the gallery a knot of vague shadows had gathered. It occurred to me, and time enough you might suppose, that we were very far from possible aid in a region where visitors are a poor risk. And suddenly, out of space for all I knew, appeared a little noiseless silken apparition of a Chinese who regarded us from twin lenses with a phosphorescent gleam.
It was of a piece with the whole mysterious side of the affair that he should address Sutton a screed in the vernacular and that the mate should answer. I was long past wonder—anything might happen now—and I only noted that our companion could be wheedling and plausible in more than one language. But Raff seemed curiously put out and broke upon their chatter.
"Friend of yours?" he rumbled.
Sutton span around nervously.
"He—he says we've got to go away quick. He says we've no business here."
"Tell him sure thing, soon as we get our friend."
"But he says—he says Chris is his lodger, in a private house, and mustn't be disturbed."
"Oh, he does, hey? Well, we'll give him a chance to explain to the police in another minute!"
"That's no good either."
"Does he figger we can't get no police?"