He moved slowly out through the lounge to the street door, bowing coldly to certain of the individuals he passed. He went out, and down the steps.
The ragged rickshaw coolies pressed about him. He brushed them aside with his hand. For a moment he stood there, on the stone sidewalk. Once he turned, as if to reenter the hotel; but wavered, and stood still again.
I thought he saw me, waiting in the doorway, but believe now that he did not.
Finally he stepped up into a rickshaw, and waved his hand. His coolie picked up the shafts and set off on a run.
I hurried down the steps, leaped into the next rickshaw, and followed.
He went as directly as the streets permitted to our little Hôtel de Chine.
So he was coming back!
I dismissed my rickshaw at the corner of the street and walked to the hotel.
He was not to be seen in office or lounge, so I went on up the stairs.
As I mounted, I heard voices. I stopped short when my eyes cleared the top step, and looked down the corridor.