Mori Yada was ushered in. Every eye was turned on him as he
entered--some of the men present looking at him with wonder, some with
curiosity, two, at any rate--Levendale and Stephen Purvis--with doubt. But
Yada himself was to all outward appearance utterly indifferent to the
glances thrown in his direction: it seemed to John Purdie, who was
remembering all he had heard the night before, that the young Japanese
medical student was a singularly cool and self-possessed hand. Yada,
indeed, might have been walking in on an assemblage of personal friends,
specially gathered together in his honour. Melky Rubinstein, who was also
watching him closely, noticed at once that he had evidently made a very
careful toilet that morning. Yada's dark overcoat, thrown negligently
open, revealed a smart grey lounge suit; in one gloved hand he carried a
new bowler hat, in the other a carefully rolled umbrella. He looked as
prosperous and as severely in mode as if no mysteries and underground
affairs had power to touch him, and the ready smile with which he greeted
Ayscough was ingenuous and candid enough to disarm the most suspicious.
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