Our friend stepped along briskly, and presently turned up a side street,
whither we followed at a respectful distance, Thorndyke holding open his
pocket-book, and appearing to engage me in an earnest discussion, but
keeping a sharp eye on his quarry.
"There he goes!" said my colleague, as the man suddenly
disappeared--"the house with the green window-sashes. That will be
number thirteen."
It was; and, having verified the fact, we passed on, and took the next
turning that would lead us back to the main road.
Some twenty minutes later, as we were strolling past the door of a
coffee-shop, a man came out, and began to fill his pipe with an air of
leisurely satisfaction. His hat and clothes were powdered with white
like those of the workmen whom we had seen come out of the factory.
Thorndyke accosted him.
"Is that a flour-mill up the road there?"
"No, sir; pearl-shell. I work there myself."
"Pearl-shell, eh?" said Thorndyke. "I suppose that will be an industry
that will tend to attract the aliens. Do you find it so?"
"No, sir; not at all. The work's too hard. We've only got one foreigner
in the place, and he ain't an alien--he's a Jap.
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