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Rh who loom most largely in the public eye are men of little or no personality. They are marionettes who dance to the wires pulled by a master hand, and that hand is Li Chang Yen’s. His is the controlling brain of the East to-day. We don’t understand the East—we never shall; but Li Chang Yen is its moving spirit. Not that he comes out into the limelight—oh, not at all; he never moves from his palace in Pekin. But he pulls strings—that’s it, pulls strings—and things happen far away.”

“And is there no one to oppose him?” asked Poirot.

Mr. Ingles leant forward in his chair.

“Four men have tried in the last four years,” he said slowly; “men of character, and honesty, and brain power. Any one of them might in time have interfered with his plans.” He paused.

“Well?” I queried.

“Well, they are dead. One wrote an article, and mentioned Li Chang Yen’s name in connection with the riots in Pekin, and within two days he was stabbed in the street. His murderer was never caught. The offences of the other two were similar. In a speech or an article, or in conversation, each linked Li Chang Yen’s name with rioting or revolution, and within a