“You both have the wrong idea!” said Dunbar, deliberately; “you are all wrong! You seem to be under the impression that if we could lay our hands upon the missing staff of the so-called Nursing Home, we should find the assassin to be one of the crowd. It doesn't follow at all. For a long time, you, Sowerby,”--he turned his tawny eyes upon the sergeant--“had the idea that Soames was the murderer, and I'm not sure that you have got rid of it yet! You, Stringer, appear to think that Nurse Proctor is responsible. Upon my word, you are a hopeless pair! Suppose Soames had nothing whatever to do with the matter, but merely realized that he could not prove an alibi? Wouldn't YOU bolt? I put it to you.” Sowerby stared hard, and Stringer scratched his chin, reflectively. “The same reasoning applies to the Gillingham Street people,” continued Dunbar. “We haven't the slightest idea of THEIR whereabouts because we don't even know who they were; but we do know something about Soames, and we're looking for him, not because we think he did the murder, but because we think he can tell us who did.” “Which brings us back to the old point,” interrupted Stringer, softly beating his fist upon the table at every word; “why are we looking for Soames in the east-end?” “Because,” replied Dunbar, “we're working on the theory that Soames, though actually not accessory to the crime, was in the pay of those who were”... “Well?”--Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the inspector's face. “And those who WERE accessory,”--continued Dunbar, “were servants of Mr. King.” “Ah!” Stringer brought his fist down with a bang--“Mr. King! That's where I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the dark.” He bent forward over the table. “Who the devil is Mr. King?” Dunbar twirled his whisky glass between his fingers. “We don't know,” he replied quietly, “but Soames does, in all probability; and that's why we're looking for Soames.” “Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?” persisted Stringer, the argumentative. “It is,” snapped Dunbar. “We have only got one Chinatown worthy of the name, in London, and that's not ten minutes' walk from here.” “Chinatown--yes,” said Sowerby, his red face glistening with excitement; “but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?” “Because,” replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, “Mr. King in all probability is a Chinaman.” “Who says so?” demanded Stringer. “Max says so...” “MAX!”--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. “Now we have got to it! We're working, then, not on our own theories, but on those of Max?” Dunbar's sallow face flushed slightly, and his eyes seemed to grow brighter. “Mr. Gaston Max obtained information in Paris,” he said, “which he placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matter thoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical. A certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in all probability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?”