“Neither of 'em!” cried the fireman, some evidence of animation appearing in his face; “I been at Kwen Lung's.”
“In Pennyfields?”
“That's 'im, the old bloke with the big joss. I allers goes to see Ma Lorenzo when I'm in Port o' London. I've seen 'er for the last time, mates.”
He banged a big and dirty hand upon the table.
“Last night I see murder done, an' only that I know they wouldn't believe me, I'd walk across to Limehouse P'lice Station presently and put the splits on 'em, I would.”
Harley, who was seated behind the speaker, glanced at me significantly.
“Sure you wasn't dreamin'?” he inquired facetiously.
“Dreamin'!” cried the man. “Dreams don't leave no blood be'ind, do they?”
“Blood!” I exclaimed.
“That's wot I said—blood! When I woke up this mornin' there was blood all on that grinnin' joss—the blood wot 'ad dripped from 'er shoulders when she fell.”