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"What is it, Leh Shin?" The Chinaman held a tweed hat in his hand and stole into the room like a shadow. "What now, Leh Shin?" Joicey spoke in Yunnanese with the fluency of long habit, and even though he was angry he kept his voice low as though he feared to be overheard. "The Master of Masters will speak for me," said the Chinaman, standing before him.
"I will not speak the name of the Master, but my doors are locked, my house is a house for the water-rats, and until the big Lord frees me I am a poor man." Joicey sat down heavily on a low chair. "It shall be stopped," he said desperately. "I will see that there is no more of this police supervision; you may take my word for it." The Chinaman stood still, moving one foot to the other.
"Ask your question, if it is a question." "I am coming to that presently. Before I do I want you to understand, Mr. Joicey, that, like you, I am a servant of the public, and I am at present employed in gathering together evidence that throws any light upon the doings of three people on the night of July the twenty-ninth." "Then you are wasting valuable time," said Joicey defiantly.
You need have no fear, I'm over it now; I'll rest for a little and then go my way quickly. Believe me, I'd rather be alone." Very reluctantly, Hartley quitted him. He felt that Joicey was ill, and might even be beginning the horrible phase of "breaking up," which comes on with such fatal speed in a tropical climate.
"I was away from Mangadone on that night." "I am quite aware that you told Hartley so." Coryndon's voice was perfectly even and level, but hot anger flamed up in the bloodshot eyes of Craven Joicey.
"Good night," replied Joicey shortly, and closed the carriage-door behind him. He drove along the dark roads, his arms in the window-straps and his head bent forward.
My Superintendent swears that he did go down Paradise Street on the night of the twenty-ninth, but Joicey is ill, and he said he wasn't in Mangadone then. He has been seedy for some time and may have mixed up dates." "You attach no importance to him?" "Practically none." Hartley leaned back in his chair and lighted a cheroot. Coryndon touched the piece of silk rag with his hand.
In the spring of 1895 I was dining in Downing Street with Lord Rosebery, then Prime Minister. Next to me at dinner was seated Sir James Joicey, the millionaire colliery owner and Member of Parliament. Sir James is, like myself, a Northumbrian, and our conversation naturally turned upon our native county.
He had something to say to Leh Shin, something that could not wait to be said, and he composed himself to the necessary patience that is part of all close, careful search, and while he waited, he turned over the evidence that had arisen from the little clue that Joicey had given him.
There was no sermon and the service was short, and as he sat quietly in his place, Coryndon wondered what frenzied moment of fear or despair could have driven this man into the company of Joicey and Mrs. Draycott Wilder, unconscious perhaps of their connection with him, but linked nevertheless by an invisible thread that wound around them all. Beyond the fact that he had seen Mrs.
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