"I've never seen him before."
"Then what was he doing with your name and address in his pocket? You
are Captain Hastings, aren't you?"
"Yes, but I can't explain it any more than you can."
"Curious thing. From his papers he seems to have been the servant of a
man called Ingles--a retired Civil Servant. Ah, you know him, do you?"
he added quickly, as I started at the name.
Ingles's servant! Then I _had_ seen him before. Not that I had
ever succeeded in being able to distinguish one Chinaman from another.
He must have been with Ingles on his way to China, and after the
catastrophe he had returned to England with a message, possibly, for
me. It was vital, imperative that I should hear that message.
"Is he conscious?" I asked. "Can he speak? Mr. Ingles was an old friend
of mine, and I think it possible that this poor fellow has brought me a
message from him. Mr. Ingles is believed to have gone overboard about
ten days ago."
"He's just conscious, but I doubt if he has the force to speak. He lost
a terrible lot of blood, you know. I can administer a stimulant, of
course, but we've already done all that is possible in that direction."
Nevertheless, he administered a hypodermic injection, and I stayed by
the bed, hoping against hope for a word--a sign--that might be of the
utmost value to me in my work. But the minutes sped on and no sign
came.
And suddenly a baleful idea shot across my mind? Was I not already
falling into the trap? Suppose that this Chinaman had merely assumed
the part of Ingles's servant, that he was in reality an agent of the
Big Four? Had I not once read that certain Chinese priests were capable
of simulating death? Or, to go further still, Li Chang Yen might
command a little band of fanatics who would welcome death itself if it
came at the command of their master. I must be on my guard.
Even as these thoughts flashed across my mind, the man in the bed
stirred. His eyes opened. He murmured something incoherently. Then I
saw his glance fasten upon me. He made no sign of recognition, but I
was at once aware that he was trying to speak to me. Be he friend or
foe, I must hear what he had to say.
I leaned over the bed, but the broken sounds conveyed no sort of
meaning to me. I thought I caught the word "hand," but in what
connection it was used I could not tell. Then it came again, and this
time I heard another word, the word "Largo." I stared in amazement, as
the possible juxtaposition of the two suggested itself to me.
"Handel's Largo?" I queried.
The Chinaman's eyelids flickered rapidly, as though in assent, and he
added another Italian word, the word "_carrozza_." Two or three
more words of murmured Italian came to my ears, and then he fell back
abruptly.
The doctor pushed me aside. It was all over. The man was dead.