king Mr. Campbell
politely if there was any other matter about which he would like to
speak? Here was an opportunity the I.G. had luckily foreseen--and
prepared to meet. Thanks to his foresight, Mr. Campbell was able to
take out of his pocket several long and carefully worded telegrams
giving a _resume_ of the situation. They suggested a workable
compromise; it was adopted, and peace _pourparlers_ began once more.
The I.G.'s one stipulation on entering upon them was that they should
be kept absolutely secret. And this time they were. Except Prince
Ching and one Tsungli Yamen Minister, nobody knew, nobody even
guessed, that anything unusual was even "on the carpet," as the French
say; and in order to deepen the impression that no political
anxieties were darkening the horizon, Robert Hart embarked in private
theatricals--a thing he had never done before, or since--and played
Pillicoddy.

Alas, the path of treaties never did run smooth! When arrangements
were just on the point of being concluded the Court suddenly desired
to retract some of their promises, thinking too much had been given
away. This was a cruel blow to the I.G., who well knew that the French
would never agree to the proposed changes and that the painstaking
work of weeks would topple over like a house of cards. As for China's
position in case the Treaty fell through, the less said about that the
better.

Notwithstanding, the I.G. did speak of it, and forcibly, to Yamen
Ministers, who did not listen--not because they would not, but
because they dared not for fear of exceeding their powers and bringing
Imperial censure on their own heads. What the I.G. must do, said they,
was to send a telegram immediately to Paris and say the Treaty could
not be signed as it was. He promised to do this--what else could he
do?--and went home from the Yamen disheartened, discouraged, and in no
mood for work.

[Illustration: STABLES OF SIR ROBERT HART IN THE RAINY SEASON.]

A weaker man would have "gloomed" openly; he did nothing more
despairing than stroll into the office of one of his secretaries and
have some talk about indifferent matters. None the less it was an
unusual thing for him to do, as, whenever they had business together,
his secretaries came to him, and he must have been pushed to it by one
of those mysterious impulses that sometimes shape men's destinies. Was
it the same strange impulse that sent him over to the bookcase in the
corner of the room, that m