Her escort was indeed a most remarkable-looking person. He was a well-built, determined-looking man; but his face was death-like in its pallor and his head was swathed in bandages. As he walked toward a corner table, he swayed weakly and the girl kept him upon his feet. But the frequenters of the “Far East” were accustomed to strange night sights and the newcomers got scarcely a glance save from the slumming party.
They had barely got seated when Kenyon heard a step behind him, and, turning, found Forrester just closing the door.
“Ah, you’ve been surveying the outer circle,” smiled the giant, good-naturedly. “You have nothing quite like it in South America, I think.”
“Not exactly. But there are strange sights there, also. The low coffee houses at Rio are as picturesque; and even the Chinese have little the advantage of the Latin when it comes to vice.”
“No doubt you are right. But Hong Yo and Farbush are awaiting you in Hong’s place.” He looked inquiringly at Kenyon, and after a pause of some length asked: “I say, what is your candid opinion of Farbush?”
Kenyon shrugged his shoulders.
“How can I form an opinion of a person of whom I know so very little,” he replied, cautiously.
“Well, you have heard how he has conducted his share of the game. Surely you must have arrived at some sort of a conclusion, from that.”
Kenyon shook his head slowly; his assumption of calm neutrality was perfect.
“You will pardon me, I know,” he said, suavely. “But I’d rather not express myself upon so, to me, vague a point.”