After all, it was cool outside; the harmless outcast had no coat, and he was welcome to stay there for a while - so long as Loo Choy had conversation on his mind.
The American - through his haze - appeared interested in what the Chinese said. Occasionally he would start to interject a remark in English gazing solemnly at the two Celestials with his bloodshot eyes. But always he apparently changed his mind. At last he listened - listened as though fascinated by the strange utterances of the two Chinamen, even though the language must be beyond his comprehension.
Loo Choy was seeking sympathy. He was tired of his job. One would never have suspected it from his bland countenance.
He was actually burdened in mind, he told his visiting friend. There was too much work to do. Standing all day; guarding the empty tea boxes; always anxious and eagerly awaiting a customer. It was a strain, even for a Chinaman. He needed both a substitute and a helper.
But Wang Foo would object, of course. One time Loo Choy had had a substitute. His cousin, Ling Chow, had served in that capacity. In fact, Ling Chow had worked two years for old Wang Foo. But he had saved money and had become enterprising. He had moved to some unknown city and for twelve months Loo Choy had heard nothing from him.
Yes, Ling Chow had written once - when he had arrived at his destination, but the postmark was smudged. He had opened a laundry and probably was doing well. Perhaps some day, Loo Choy would also open a laundry.
But now he had but one ambition - a week’s vacation to loll about through Chinatown, then to take turns with his helper. The other man could stay in the tea shop in the afternoon; he, Loo Choy, would remain there at night. But there was only one man to whom Wang Foo would intrust such important duties - that man was Loo Choy’s cousin, Ling Chow.
He produced the letter that Ling Chow had sent him a year ago. It was written in Chinese, of course; but some American had addressed the envelope. The envelope was old and dirty. Loo Choy laid it on the counter when he opened the letter.
Had he been able to read the postmark on the envelope, he would have learned that far-away city was Yonkers, and that it was not far away at all.
The drunken, coatless white man who had sought refuge in the tea shop might have managed to decipher the postmark, for while the envelope was lying on the counter he staggered forward and began to babble in a foolish way. Thereupon Loo Choy and his friend ejected the troublesome disturber and went on with their conversation.
The next morning there was neither newsboy nor cripple in the street outside the tea shop, nor during that afternoon. This was a matter of some consequence to Loo Choy, for every afternoon his master, Wang Foo, inquired whom he had seen outside the store.
Then, early in the evening, shortly after he had made his daily report to Wang Foo, Loo Choy received an agreeable surprise which he took in typically calm Chinese fashion. For in walked his old cousin, Ling Chow.
There was something different about Ling Chow. He looked very much the same; he talked very much the same - but somehow he was different. Ling Chow had never talked very much, and he said very little now. He had left his laundry business for a while. He would like something to do.
Loo Choy proposed the opportunity. Ling Chow would take his place for a week.
At first Ling Chow seemed reluctant to do so. Finally, he consented.
So Loo Choy toddled upstairs and arranged matters with Wang Foo. The old Chinaman remembered Ling Chow, of course. He remembered everything. He asked to see Ling Chow, and when the cousin was admitted to the sanctum, the old tea merchant gave him certain instructions which seemed quite familiar to Ling Chow.
For one week thereafter, Ling Chow stood behind the counter of Wang Foo’s tea shop.
During the week, no one loitered in the narrow street. Strangely enough, a few visitors appeared during that period. At night, the shadows were not so strange across the street - particularly the shadow that was directly opposite Wang Foo’s tea shop.
When the week had passed, Loo Choy returned to duty. But he was there during the evening only. In the afternoon, Ling Chow was on the job. In the evenings, the shadow seemed to deepen across the street after Loo Choy had taken up his work. But no one noticed the shadows, for they were thick and heavy along the thoroughfare.
Ling Chow stayed on - he was very indefinite about how long he would remain. So Loo Choy was content, and paid very little attention to his friendly cousin. It seemed quite natural for Ling Chow to be there again - natural to both Loo Choy and to Wang Foo. Yet there was a real mystery in his presence.
For at the same time that Ling Chow was standing behind the counter in Wang Foo’s tea shop, Ling Chow was also taking bundles over the counter of a Chinese laundry in Yonkers!
There were two Ling Chows; and no one - not even Loo Choy or Wang Foo - could have distinguished one from the other!
CHAPTER XIV
AT HOLMWOOD ARMS
THE first week at Holmwood Arms was an enjoyable experience for Harry Vincent. He had lived in luxury at the Metrolite Hotel, but he had been merely one guest among many, and had followed the isolated existence that is the usual routine of those who stay in large hotels.
A different spirit prevailed at Holmwood Arms. The inn was a fashionable one and a great deal of the social life of Holmwood centered about its spacious salons. Many of the guests had been residents for years; all of them were persons well situated in life; and they welcomed a new arrival.
Particularly a gentleman like Harry Vincent. He was very evidently a man of refinement and education. With money at his disposal - and his supply seemed virtually limitless - he was capable of cutting a good figure in such surroundings.
The mysterious stranger of the bridge had chosen well when he had picked Harry Vincent for a henchman. For the young man was serious, yet affable; friendly, yet discreet.
Harry felt that he had assumed a real responsibility; that his work demanded proper living and wise action. The fact that he could obtain money whenever he wanted it made him choose the wise course of economy. He limited his expenditures to reasonable amounts, and kept a careful account of all expenses. This had not been asked of him; but he wanted to be ready with a full account, should it ever be demanded of him.
The great appeal of his unique work lay in the adventure that it offered.
Harry had always craved adventure; but had never possessed the initiative to seek it. In his present position, it might be forced upon him at any time. He felt that he was ready for it.
He had no desire to go through another experience like the disaster at Wang Foo’s; at the same time, he had no fear for his future safety.
The Shadow had been powerful enough to snatch him from the clutches of what seemed certain doom; and Harry felt confident that he would be saved from any danger which might come, or it would not be The Shadow’s fault.
Harry spent his first week at Holmwood Arms without making any effort to gain quick results. He felt that he was gaining the confidence of the people in the inn; that he was establishing himself soundly in the community.
Harry drove about considerably in his coupe. The car was a recent model of a high-priced make - speedy, powerful and reliable. He rode slowly past the Laidlow home and took in the surroundings much more effectively than he had from the newspaper photographs. He walked about the district also, but gained no added information during his casual inspections.
The inn was about half a mile from the town of Holmwood. Leaving the village, one followed a shady avenue that led directly to the home of the murdered millionaire. A side street, turning left from the road to the Laidlow house, went to Holmwood Arms. The millionaire’s house was about a half a mile from the hotel.
Beyond the Laidlow home was the residence of Ezekiel Bingham, the well-known lawyer whose testimony had been so important to the police. Bingham’s house was not a pretentious one; the grounds were small, but the place was well kept.