was the sanctum in which most of his schemes and problems were worked out. He was faultlessly attired though rather somberly in a suit of black. Even his tie was black, as though he were still in mourning for the noble friend he had lost, the friend who had trusted him beyond all others by making him executor of his will.
As Dick Varney gazed upon him he could scarcely credit his eyes; for Mortimer Davga was none other than Mr. Isaacs who had kept the vile lodging-house in the poorer section of Singapore, the keeper of the house which Dick's deliberate smashing of the lamp had ultimately laid in ruins. There was no chance that the likeness was only a resemblance. Dick had an excellent faculty for remembering faces, and that sly, sinister, ancient face could belong to none other than Mr. Isaacs.
Dick realized that his position was more than precarious. The man at the door had resembled a scoundrel. Such a man might stop at nothing. And Mr. Isaacs, or to give him his real name, Mortimer Davga, looked capable of formulating any despicable plan. It made his fears for Dolores all the more acute. He longed to flee from the house, and yet he vowed that he would not. Not for a moment did he doubt that Davga had spirited her away from the tea-house. Perhaps the tea-house itself was owned by Davga. The fact that Wing Lo had recommended it meant nothing. Wing Lo was a gentle character. He had merely recommended a tea-house in which he had been wont to linger in the heat of the afternoons. The restaurant was dream-like, the tea superb, and Wing Lo had found contentment. No further credentials were necessary. At last Mortimer Davga looked up from his writing. By not so much as the quiver of an eyelid did he show that he recognized his visitor. He rose to his feet, smiling cordially, hand extended.
"I do not know who you are," he said, "but you are welcome anyway. My house is always open to the passing traveler."
Dick took the extended hand. "I am Richard Varney," he said, "a friend to Dolores Cravat. She told me that if I ever chanced to pass this way I must not fail to call upon her."
"Your coming is rather inopportune," was the reply, "for Dolores is away. I do not know when she will be back. She is a girl of whims, a trifle headstrong. It is too bad that you missed her. She loves company and I know she will be disappointed if she fails to meet you. Perhaps if you are not pressed for time, it might be possible for you to remain a few days with me. At best it is rather lonesome living in such a dreary house. I would be more than thankful for your company."
"After such a delightful invitation," said Dick, "I really can not refuse. Perhaps in a couple of days Dolores will be back again."
"Undoubtedly," agreed Davga, "undoubtedly." He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction, much as a famed chef might do before carving a savory roast.
Supper that evening was an elaborate
affair of countless courses and varieties.
It was served in the Chinese manner.
Davga was a splendid host, an excellent conversationist. He could talk on any subject in an interesting manner. He discussed world politics, literature and science with equal fluency. Under happier circumstances Dick Varney would have been drawn to him. But his ex-
