Into a narrow corridor, through a second door that seemed made of
padded wool, and then into a dimly lighted room John Keith followed
Kao, the Chinaman. Out of this room there was no other exit; it was
almost square, its ceiling was low, its walls darkly somber, and that
life was there Keith knew by the heaviness of cigarette smoke in the
air. For a moment his eyes did not discern the physical evidence of
that life. And then, staring at him out of the yellow glow, he saw a
face. It was a haunting, terrible face, a face heavy and deeply lined
by sagging flesh and with eyes sunken and staring. They were more than
staring. They greeted Keith like living coals. Under the face was a
human form, a big, fat, sagging form that leaned outward from its seat
in a chair.
Kao, bowing, sweeping his flowing raiment with his arms, said, "John
Keith, allow me to introduce you to Peter Kirkstone."
For the first time amazement, shock, came to Keith's lips in an audible
cry. He advanced a step. Yes, in that pitiable wreck of a man he
recognized Peter Kirkstone, the fat creature who had stood under the
picture of the Madonna that fateful night, Miriam Kirkstone's brother!
And as he stood, speechless, Kao said: "Peter Kirkstone, you know why I
have brought this man to you tonight. You know that he is not Derwent
Conniston. You know that he is John Keith, the murderer of your father.
Is it not so?"