Lodge. No doubt you've visited them there, Mr. Yada?"
"I have been there—yes, a few times," assented Yada. "Not very lately. But—where is Chang Li?"
"That's what we don't know—and what we want to know," said Ayscough. "He's not been seen at the hospital since the 20th. He didn't turn up there—nor Chen, either, at a class, that day. And you say you haven't seen them either since the 18th?"
"I was not at the hospital on the 19th," replied Yada. He threw away the end of his cigar, picked up a fresh one from a box which stood on the table, pushed the box towards his visitors, and drew out a silver match-box. "What are the facts of this murder, Mr. Detective-Sergeant?" he asked quietly. "Murder is not done without some object—as a rule."
Ayscough accepted the offered cigar, passed the box to Melky and while he lighted his selection, thought quietly. He was playing a game with the Japanese, and it was necessary to think accurately and quickly. And suddenly he made up his mind and assumed an air of candour.
"It's like this, Mr. Yada," he said. "I may as well tell you all about it. You've doubtless read all about this Praed Street mystery in the newspapers? Well, now, some very extraordinary developments have arisen out of the beginnings of that. It turns out."
Melky sat by, disturbed and uncomfortable, while Ayscough reeled off a complete narrative of the recent discoveries to the suave-mannered, phlegmatic, calmly-listening figure on the hearthrug. He did not understand the detective's doings—it seemed to him the height
