“The police searched Kwen Lung's place from foundation to tiles,” he said. “I was there myself. Old Kwen Lung conveniently kept out of the way--still playing fan-tan, no doubt! But Ma Lorenzo was in evidence. She blandly declared that Kwen Lung never had a daughter! And in the absence of our friend the fireman, who sailed in the Seahawk, and whose evidence, by the way, is legally valueless--what could we do? They could find nobody in the neighbourhood prepared to state that Kwen Lung had a daughter or that Kwen Lung had no daughter. There are all sorts of fables about the old fox, but the facts about him are harder to get at.” “But,” I explained, “the bloodstains on the joss!” “Ma Lorenzo stumbled and fell there on the previous night, striking her skull against the foot of the figure.” “What nonsense!” I cried. “We should have seen the wound last night.” “We might have done,” said Harley musingly; “I don't know when she inflicted it on herself; but I did see it this morning.” “What!” “Oh, the gash is there all right, partly covered by her hair.” He stood still, staring at me oddly. “One meets with cases of singular devotion in unexpected quarters sometimes,” he said. “You mean that the woman inflicted the wound upon herself in order------” “To save old Kwen Lung--exactly! It's marvellous.” “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “And the window?” “Oh! it was broken right enough--by two drunken sailormen fighting in the court outside! Sash and everything smashed to splinters.” He began irritably to pace the carpet again. “It must have been a devil of a fight!” he added savagely. “Meanwhile,” said I, “where is old Kwen Lung hiding?” “But more particularly,” cried Harley, “where has he hidden the poor victim? Come along, Knox! I'm going down there for a final look round.” “Of course the premises are being watched?” “Of course--and also, of course, I shall be the laughing stock of Scotland Yard if nothing results.” It was close on midnight when once more I found myself in Pennyfields. Carried away by Harley's irritable excitement I had quite forgotten the romance of Captain Dan; and when, having exchanged greetings with the detective on duty hard by the house of Kwen Lung, we presently found ourselves in the presence of Ma Lorenzo, I scarcely knew for a moment if I were “Jim” or my proper self. “Is Kwen Lung in?” asked Harley sternly. The woman shook her head. “No,” she replied; “he sometimes stop away a whole week.” “Does he?” jerked Harley. “Come in, Knox; we'll take another look round.” A moment later I found myself again in the room of the golden joss. The red curtain had been removed from before the shattered window, but otherwise the place looked exactly as it had looked before. The atmosphere was much less stale, however, but there was something repellent about the great gilded idol smiling eternally from his pedestal beside the door.