Gabby signed the desk register, then followed the librarian to the file cabinets, moving with her lazy, square-shouldered carriage. Lennox turned the pages of the desk register back to December 24th. He went through the signatures and addresses one by one. He found his own, third from the end, written in his heavy Gothic hand. There was no Knott. There was no name vaguely resembling Knott. To the best of his knowledge there was no handwriting resembling the hysterical scrawl in the letters. He motioned to Gabby who returned to the desk. "Nothing here," Lennox murmured. "Leave us take a powder." "Oh, that wouldn't be kind. Let's wait a moment." The librarian came scurrying up with a list of references which he presented to Gabby gallantly. She thanked him, folded the list and handed it to Lennox. "What for?" he asked as they left. "You wanted a production number, didn't you? Here it is." "That was last week. I'm off the show now. Remember?" "You'll be on it again," Gabby said confidently. "Who taught you to say the right thing at the right time?" "Nobody. I just tell the truth and shame the devil--Don't you dare touch me. Ouch! Oh quick! There's a taxi." The Yellow Sea was packed with the early dinner crowd. The waiters ran and shouted. The managers darted from table to table, scribbling orders. The swinging doors of the kitchen banged open and shut giving flashing glimpses of a giant smoky room from which came the crackle of hot oil and excited chefs. "This is impossible," Lennox grunted. "I'll never get a chance to ask anything in this mad-house." "Will it always be crowded?" "No. They'll clear out in an hour or so." "Then let's have dinner first. I want to show off. I know how to use chop-sticks." Lennox looked at her. "Taught to you by an eclectic Chinaman?" "No, by a Hawaiian. He was very nice, but terribly hasty." "Gabrielle, I swear you're a great woman. We'll have to wait for a table. Let's go to the bar." The Yellow Sea had expanded twice in its rise to prosperity. In the forties it had added a tourist-type dining room to the original teakwood and silk-screen restaurant which now catered exclusively to the Chinese locals. In the fifties it added a chrome and neon bar. Lennox and Gabby went up a flight of stairs, down another, and entered the bar where they were unexpectedly greeted by a stranger. "Ah!" he cried. He spoke with the explosive Chinatown diction. "Missa Hu-li Lennox. Dissa g'eat pleasuh an' honauh." He came forward, shook Jake's hand, and said: "Lon' time no see. Yes? Ha-ha." He was short, very stout, and either an old young man or a young old man, as is so often the confusing appearance of the Chinese. His round, boyish face was perpetually wreathed in a sunny smile to which a wall-eye lent a distracting quality. You never could be sure whether he was beaming at you or at some faraway recollection. "You 'membuh me, Missa Lennox? Stanley Fu, the Sh'off?" "The Shoff?"