But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. ‘You have not the right. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets. He called Enschede the Bellower. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. ” The man hesitated. The inn was a military haunt.
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