The Chinaman shuffled away, went padding up the stairs and down the long hall, and found the door of two-one-seven. Here he paused and considered. He must make no mistake.
He tried the door softly. It was locked, of course. Then he knocked and raised his voice, speaking English in a way that would have startled the night clerk:
“Is this Mr. Peter Fitzgerald’s room?”
A rumbling growl ended in a curse.
“No, damn your silly eyes, it ain’t! Get away from that door!”
The Chinaman muttered an apology and retreated audibly. Half way down the hall he stopped, took the vial from his pocket, and returned to two-one-seven.
Noiselessly he approached the door and knelt down. He removed the pledget of cotton from the neck of the bottle and by the light of the hall lamp gently blew each tiny insect under the door as it was shaken clear of its glass prison.
Half an hour later, Lee Hin undressed and climbed into bed in the little chamber adjoining the basement laboratory.