Carter made no reply to the question, but asked him if he had seen any one, and if he closed the door after he left. To both he answered: “No”; then seeing our amazed faces, he added: “You perhaps wonder why I did not report his death to the police.” He was silent a moment, studying the gloss of his nails; then, raising his head, he said: “That, of course, was not my affair. Then again I failed to see why I should become—what is it you say—mixed up in a violent death. I had nothing to do with it, and it was not my affair in the least.” He paused and there fell a silence—a silence broken by Ranville speaking for the first time: “You wrote to Mr. Warren, you say—telling him you were to visit him?” The yellow figure in the chair slightly inclined his head in assent. Then Ranville asked: “Did you type your letter?” The voice was cold as the oriental replied: “As it was a personal letter, naturally I did him the courtesy of writing it with my own hand.” Again silence, in which I wondered what might be in the brain of the inscrutable figure in the chair. His eyes went over the three of us, and I thought I saw a little show of contempt in the glance. It was Carter who broke the silence—a silence which was becoming awkward. “Did you find the box?” The man rose, and once more I thought that he was the tallest man of his race I had ever seen. As he bent to take his hat in his hand, I noticed how long his fingers were and how flexible they appeared. Then as he straightened up, he answered the question: “No, I did not find it. If I had, I would have taken it with me. I left everything as it was and departed. The door was still open when I went away.” He turned as if he thought the interview was over. Behind the man's back Ranville's eyes met Carter's, and there was a little amused look in them. He reached the door before Carter spoke: “Will you go with me and tell your story to the chief of police?” The man turned quickly. There seemed to be a surprised tone in his voice as he replied: “The police? Why, no, why should I bother with them. You can tell them what I have said.” He smiled and added sarcastically: “They can find me. I am in Cooperstown—at the Inn.” Then bowing very low, he begged us not to go to the door, and went out into the air. For a moment after his steps died away no one spoke. The man had gone as quietly as he had arrived. His story, to say the least, was odd. Then, with a decided shake of his head, Carter burst forth: “Well, what do you think of that yarn? For my part I don't believe it.” “It is pretty hard to say, Carter,” Ranville laughed in reply. “I have had a good deal of experience with the Chinese, and it has been my idea that it is almost impossible to say what goes on back of their almond-shaped eyes. Yet he may have told the truth, at that.”