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 mud on your window-sill, the mud on the floor. You put on fresh clothes and waited for the time when you were due to meet somebody—a friend. Where were you going—you and your friend? I’ll gamble there’s a boat waiting for you down at the dock; faked passports, maybe none at all; a bribe here and there—money will do a lot, eh? Well, Hung—I’m sorry. I can’t let you go to meet your friend. But don’t worry—it’s all right. Your friend will be here in a minute to meet you?”

Even at that startling bit of information Hung allowed himself no look of surprise or of distress. Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s all up, Hung,” the detective was saying. “You haven’t got a chance in the world. It’s as clear as day. Your first free evening in twenty years, and you spend it killing your master and your master’s best friend. Is that your idea of a pleasant night off? Now that’s Rh