At the entrance to the court communicating with the establishment
of Huang Chow he paused, looking cautiously about him. The men
on the Limehouse beats had been warned of the investigation afoot
tonight, and there was a plain-clothes man on point duty at no
great distance away, although carefully hidden, so that Durham
had quite failed to detect his presence.
Durham wore rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes; and now, as he
entered the court, he was thinking of the official report of the
police sergeant who, not so many hours before, had paid a visit
to the house of Huang Chow in order to question him respecting
his knowledge of the dead man Cohen, and to learn when last he
had seen him.
Old Huang, who had received his caller in the large room
upstairs, the room which boasted the presence of the writing-
dais, had exhibited no trace of confusion, assuring the sergeant
that he had not seen the man Cohen for several days. Cohen had
come to him with an American introduction, which he, Huang,
believed to be forged, and had wanted him to undertake a shady
agency, respecting the details of which he remained peculiarly
reticent. In short, nothing had been gained by this official
interrogation, and Huang blandly denied any knowledge of an
attempted burglary of his establishment.
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