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Updated: May 1, 2025
A decanter stood on the table at his elbow; a syphon of mineral water reared itself close by; a tumbler was within reach of Mr. Yada's slender yellowish fingers. "Servant, sir!" said Ayscough. "Detective Sergeant Ayscough of the Criminal Investigation Department friend of mine, this, sir, Mr. Yada, I believe Mr. Mori Yada?" Mr. Yada smiled again, and without rising, indicated two chairs.
Melky was watching Yada's face out of his own eye-corners, and he saw the olive-tinted skin pale a little, and the crafty eyes contract. And on the instant he pursued his tactics and his advantage. He had purposely steered the Japanese into a more crowded part of the street, and now he edged him into a bye-alley which led to a rookery of narrow bye-streets beyond.
The folk who had been chiefly concerned about the orange-yellow diamond and the eighty thousand pounds' worth of Bank of England notes were not so much troubled about proving the truth of Yada's strange story as Yada himself was the main point to them was that they had recovered their property.
Melky Rubinstein, who was also watching him closely, noticed at once that he had evidently made a very careful toilet that morning. Yada's dark overcoat, thrown negligently open, revealed a smart grey lounge suit; in one gloved hand he carried a new bowler hat, in the other a carefully rolled umbrella.
"The fact of the case is, Mr. Yada," he said, "one of these two young men has been murdered! murdered, sir!" Yada's well-defined eyebrows elevated themselves but the rest of his face was immobile. He looked fixedly at Ayscough for a second or two then he let out one word. "Which?" "According to Dr. Pittery Chen Li," answered Ayscough. "Dr. Pittery identified him. Murdered, Mr. Yada, murdered!
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