An hour later, alone and heading for the inspector’s office, Keith felt in battle trim.  His head was fairly singing with the success of the morning.  Since the opening of Conniston’s chest many things had happened, and he was no longer facing a blank wall of mystery.  His chief cause of exhilaration was Mary Josephine.  She wanted to go away with him.  She wanted to go with him anywhere, everywhere, as long as they were together.  When she had learned that his term of enlistment was about to expire and that if he remained in the Service he would be away from her a great deal, she had pleaded with him not to reenlist.  She did not question him when he told her that it might be necessary to go away very suddenly, without letting another soul know of their movements, not even Wallie.  Intuitively she guessed that the reason had something to do with John Keith, for he had let the fear grow in her that McDowell might discover he had been a traitor to the Service, in which event the Law itself would take him away from her for a considerable number of years.  And with that fear she was more than ever eager for the adventure, and planned with him for its consummation.

Another thing cheered Keith.  He was no longer the absolute liar of yesterday, for by a fortunate chance he had been able to tell her that John Keith was alive.  This most important of all truths he had confided to her, and the confession had roused in her a comradeship that had proclaimed itself ready to fight for him or run away with him.  Not for an instant had she regretted the action he had taken in giving Keith his freedom.  He was peculiarly happy because of that.  She was glad John Keith was alive.

And now that she knew the story of the old home down in the clump of timber and of the man who had lived there, she was anxious to meet Miriam Kirkstone, daughter of the man he had killed.  Keith had promised her they would go up that afternoon.  Within himself he knew that he was not sure of keeping the promise.  There was much to do in the next few hours, and much might happen.  In fact there was but little speculation about it.  This was the big day.  Just what it held for him he could not be sure until he saw Shan Tung.  Any instant might see him put to the final test.

Cruze was pacing slowly up and down the hall when Keith entered the building in which McDowell had his offices.  The young secretary’s face bore a perplexed and rather anxious expression.  His hands were buried deep in his trousers pockets, and he was puffing a cigarette.  At Keith’s appearance he brightened up a bit.

“Don’t know what to make of the governor this morning, by Jove I don’t!” he explained, nodding toward the closed doors.  “I’ve got instructions to let no one near him except you.  You may go in.”

“What seems to be the matter?” Keith felt out cautiously.

Cruze shrugged his thin shoulders, nipped the ash from his cigarette, and with a grimace said, “Shan Tung.”

“Shan Tung?” Keith spoke the name in a sibilant whisper.  Every nerve in him had jumped, and for an instant he thought he had betrayed himself.  Shan Tung had been there early.  And now McDowell was waiting for him and had given instructions that no other should be admitted.  If the Chinaman had exposed him, why hadn’t McDowell sent officers up to the Shack?  That was the first question that jumped into his head.  The answer came as quickly-McDowell had not sent officers because, hating Shan Tung, he had not believed his story.  But he was waiting there to investigate.  A chill crept over Keith.

Cruze was looking at him intently.

“There’s something to this Shan Tung business,” he said.  “It’s even getting on the old man’s nerves.  And he’s very anxious to see you, Mr. Conniston.  I’ve called you up half a dozen times in the last hour.”

He nipped away his cigarette, turned alertly, and moved toward the inspector’s door.  Keith wanted to call him back, to leap upon him, if necessary, and drag him away from that deadly door.  But he neither moved nor spoke until it was too late.  The door opened, he heard Cruze announce his presence, and it seemed to him the words were scarcely out of the secretary’s mouth when McDowell himself stood in the door.

“Come in, Conniston,” he said quietly.  “Come in.”

It was not McDowell’s voice.  It was restrained, terrible.  It was the voice of a man speaking softly to cover a terrific fire raging within.  Keith felt himself doomed.  Even as he entered, his mind was swiftly gathering itself for the last play, the play he had set for himself if the crisis came.  He would cover McDowell, bind and gag him even as Cruze sauntered in the hall, escape through a window, and with Mary Josephine bury himself in the forests before pursuit could overtake them.  Therefore his amazement was unbounded when McDowell, closing the door, seized his hand in a grip that made him wince, and shook it with unfeigned gladness and relief.

“I’m not condemning you, of course,” he said.  “It was rather beastly of me to annoy your sister before you were up this morning.  She flatly refused to rouse you, and by George, the way she said it made me turn the business of getting into touch with you over to Cruze.  Sit down, Conniston.  I’m going to explode a mine under you.”

He flung himself into his swivel chair and twisted one of his fierce mustaches, while his eyes blazed at Keith.  Keith waited.  He saw the other was like an animal ready to spring and anxious to spring, the one evident stricture on his desire being that there was nothing to spring at unless it was himself.

“What happened last night?” he asked.

Keith’s mind was already working swiftly.  McDowell’s question gave him the opportunity of making the first play against Shan Tung.

“Enough to convince me that I am going to see Shan Tung today,” he said.

He noticed the slow clenching and unclenching of McDowell’s fingers about the arms of his chair.

“Then-I was right?”

“I have every reason to believe you were-up to a certain point.  I shall know positively when I have talked with Shan Tung.”

He smiled grimly.  McDowell’s eyes were no harder than his own.  The iron man drew a deep breath and relaxed a bit in his chair.

“If anything should happen,” he said, looking away from Keith, as though the speech were merely casual, “if he attacks you-”

“It might be necessary to kill him in self-defense,” finished Keith.

McDowell made no sign to show that he had heard, yet Keith thrilled with the conviction that he had struck home.  He went on telling briefly what had happened at Miriam Kirkstone’s house the preceding night.  McDowell’s face was purple when he described the evidences of Shan Tung’s presence at the house on the hill, but with a mighty effort he restrained his passion.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he exclaimed, choking back his wrath.  “I knew he was there!  And this morning both of them lie about it-both of them, do you understand!  She lied, looking me straight in the eyes.  And he lied, and for the first time in his life he laughed at me, curse me if he didn’t!  It was like the gurgle of oil.  I didn’t know a human could laugh that way.  And on top of that he told me something that I won’t believe, so help me God, I won’t!”

He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth, his hands clenched behind him.  Suddenly he whirled on Keith.

“Why in heaven’s name didn’t you bring Keith back with you, or, if not Keith, at least a written confession, signed by him?” he demanded.

This was a blow from behind for Keith.  “What-what has Keith got to do with this?” he stumbled.

“More than I dare tell you, Conniston.  But why didn’t you bring back a signed confession from him?  A dying man is usually willing to make that.”

“If he is guilty, yes,” agreed Keith.  “But this man was a different sort.  If he killed Judge Kirkstone, he had no regret.  He did not consider himself a criminal.  He felt that he had dealt out justice in his own way, and therefore, even when he was dying, he would not sign anything or state anything definitely.”

McDowell subsided into his chair.

“And the curse of it is I haven’t a thing on Shan Tung,” he gritted.  “Not a thing.  Miriam Kirkstone is her own mistress, and in the eyes of the law he is as innocent of crime as I am.  If she is voluntarily giving herself as a victim to this devil, it is her own business-legally, you understand.  Morally-”

He stopped, his savagely gleaming eyes boring Keith to the marrow.

“He hates you as a snake hates fire-water.  It is possible, if he thought the opportunity had come to him-”

Again he paused, cryptic, waiting for the other to gather the thing he had not spoken.  Keith, simulating two of Conniston’s tricks at the same time, shrugged a shoulder and twisted a mustache as he rose to his feet.  He smiled coolly down at the iron man.  For once he gave a passable imitation of the Englishman.

“And he’s going to have the opportunity today,” he said understandingly.  “I think, old chap, I’d better be going.  I’m rather anxious to see Shan Tung before dinner.”

McDowell followed him to the door.

His face had undergone a change.  There was a tense expectancy, almost an eagerness there.  Again he gripped Keith’s hand, and before the door opened he said,

“If trouble comes between you let it be in the open, Conniston-in the open and not on Shan Tung’s premises.”

Keith went out, his pulse quickening to the significance of the iron man’s words, and wondering what the “mine” was that McDowell had promised to explode, but which he had not.