The Chief signaled Johnny to start the mechanism once more. The interpreter took his place and saw the thing through to the end.
“Johnny,” said the Chief, “do you think you could get one more of these—er—what is it you call ’em?”
“Think-o-graphs,” Johnny grinned, “of Wung Lu? Well, if—if it seems to be my duty.” Johnny shuddered slightly. “But not at night.”
“Any time you say.” The Chief’s face was sober. “It’s very important. I don’t mind telling you that you may have prevented a tragedy.”
“A—a tragedy. Yes,” Johnny replied quietly, “I had sort of guessed that. You wouldn’t mind telling me just a little, would you?” he asked timidly.
“Well now,” the Chief smiled, “if I don’t you will be turnin’ that mind readin’ machine on me an’ then there’s no tellin’ what you’d be findin’ out.
“I’ll tell you this much.” His voice dropped to a mere whisper. “You’ve heard of these Chinese secret societies called tongs? Well, it has to do with that. Your old friend Wung Lu belongs to a tong. He’s done somethin’ that’s displeasin’ to another tong. Probably nothin’ illegal, just short tradin’ or somethin’. So they’ve decided to get him out of their way.”
“Sho—shoot him?” Johnny stared. This had never occurred to him as a possibility.
“Somethin’ like that. Queer part is,” the Chief rumbled, “Wung Lu knows all about it but he won’t tell. They’re like a lot of boys, these Orientals. Just go about settlin’ their own affairs. But this is too serious to let them settle. We know the men we want and we’ve got to go get ’em. One of ’em’s this wrinkle-faced little fellow Tao Sing. He an’ his pals are in the United States illegally. We’ll just send ’em back where they came from—if we can catch ’em. And that,” the Chief ended, “is about all I can tell you just now.”
“All,” Johnny whispered to himself as he lay in his bed that night. “It’s enough to make a fellow’s head whirl.”