Agati was the first Oriental I’d ever seen. The great anti-Chinese massacres of the 1890’s, which generously included Japanese and indeed all with any sign of the epicanthic eyefold, had left few Asians to have descendants in the United States. I’m afraid I stared at him more than was polite, but he was evidently used to such rudeness for he paid no attention.
“They finally got the girl to sleep,” Ace informed me. “Had to give her opium. No report yet this morning.”
“Oh,” I said lamely, conscious I should have asked after her without waiting for him to volunteer the news. “Oh. Do you suppose we’ll find out who she is?”
“Mr H telegraphed the sheriff first thing. It’ll all depend how interested he is, and that’s not likely to be very. What’s to drink, Hiro?”
“Imitation tea, made from dried weeds; imitation coffee made from burnt barley. Which’ll you have?”
I didnt see why he stressed the imitation; genuine tea and coffee were drunk only by the very rich. Most people preferred “tea” because it was less obnoxious than the counterfeit coffee. Perversely, I said, “Coffee please.”
He set a large cup of brown liquid before me which had a tantalizing fragrance quite different from that given off by the beverage I was used to. I added milk and tasted, aware he was watching my reaction.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “this is different. I never had anything like it in my life. It’s wonderful.”
“C eight H ten O two,” said Agati with an elaborate air of indifference. “Synthetic. Specialty of the house.”
“So chemists are good for something after all,” remarked Ace.