Part 57

“We don't know,” he replied quietly, “but Soames does, in all probability; and that's why we're looking for Soames.”

“Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?” persisted Stringer, the argumentative.

“It is,” snapped Dunbar. “We have only got one Chinatown worthy of the name, in London, and that's not ten minutes' walk from here.”

“Chinatown--yes,” said Sowerby, his red face glistening with excitement; “but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?”

“Because,” replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, “Mr. King in all probability is a Chinaman.”

“Who says so?” demanded Stringer.

“Max says so...”

“MAX!”--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. “Now we have got to it! We're working, then, not on our own theories, but on those of Max?”

Dunbar's sallow face flushed slightly, and his eyes seemed to grow brighter.

“Mr. Gaston Max obtained information in Paris,” he said, “which he placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matter thoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical. A certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in all probability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?”

Sowerby and Stringer looked at one another, perplexedly. Each man finished his drink in silence. Then:

“What took place in Paris?” began Sowerby.

There was an interruption. A stooping figure in a shabby, black frock-coat, the figure of a man who wore a dilapidated bowler pressed down upon his ears, who had a greasy, Semitic countenance, with a scrubby, curling, sandy colored beard, sparse as the vegetation of a desert, appeared at Sowerby's elbow.

He carried a brimming pewter pot. This he set down upon a corner of the table, depositing himself in a convenient chair and pulling out a very dirty looking letter from an inside pocket. He smoothed it carefully. He peered, little-eyed, from the frowning face of Dunbar to the surprised countenance of Sowerby, and smiled with native amiability at the dangerous-looking Stringer.

“Excuthe me,” he said, and his propitiatory smile was expansive and dazzling, “excuthe me buttin' in like thith. It theemth rude, I know--it doth theem rude; but the fact of the matter ith I'm a tailor--thath's my pithneth, a tailor. When I thay a tailor, I really mean a breecheth-maker--tha'th what I mean, a breecheth-maker. Now thethe timeth ith very hard timeth for breecheth-makerth.”...

Dunbar finished his whisky, and quietly replaced the glass upon the table, looking from Sowerby to Stringer with unmistakable significance. Stringer emptied his glass of rum, and Sowerby disposed of his stout.

“I got thith letter lath night,” continued the breeches-maker, bending forward confidentially over the table. (The document looked at least twelve months old.) “I got thith letter latht night with thethe three fiverth in it; and not havin' no friendth in London--I'm an American thitithen, by birth,--Levinthky, my name ith--Abraham Levinthky--I'm a Noo Englander. Well, not havin' no friendth in London, and theein' you three gentlemen thittin' here, I took the liberty”...

Dunbar stood up, glared at Levinsky, and stalked out of the billiard-room, followed by his equally indignant satellites. Having gained the outer door:

“Of all the blasted impudence!” he said, turning to Sowerby and Stringer; but there was a glint of merriment in the fierce eyes. “Can you beat that? Did you tumble to his game?”

Sowerby stared at Stringer, and Stringer stared at Sowerby.

“Except,” began the latter in a voice hushed with amazement, “that he's got the coolest cheek of any mortal being I ever met.”...

Dunbar's grim face relaxed, and he laughed boyishly, his square shoulders shaking.

“He was leading up to the confidence trick!” he said, between laughs. “Damn it all, man, it was the old confidence trick! The idea of a confidence-merchant spreading out his wares before three C. I. D. men!”

He was choking with laughter again; and now, Sowerby and Stringer having looked at one another for a moment, the surprised pair joined him in his merriment. They turned up their collars and went out into the rain, still laughing.

“That man,” said Sowerby, as they walked across to the stopping place of the electric trains, “is capable of calling on the Commissioner and asking him to 'find the lady'!”

XXI

THE STUDIO IN SOHO

Certainly, such impudence as that of Mr. Levinsky is rare even in east-end London, and it may be worth while to return to the corner of the billiard-room and to study more closely this remarkable man.