stand and
jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. He had absorbed her
in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. After a
while he spoke again.

"Our talking will not bother him. He will be some time in this
comatose state. Later, there will be fever, after I've got his
heart pumping. Now, he must have folks somewhere. I'm going through
his pockets. It's only right that his people should know where he
is and what has happened to him."

But he searched in vain. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk
key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of
credit, not even a tailor's label. Immediately he grasped the fact
that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.
He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair.

"I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. "There's
nothing in his clothes. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a
case to fiddle-faddle over. Will you stand by and watch me?"

The contents of the trunk only thickened the fog. Here again the
clothes were minus the labels. All the linen was new and stamped
with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co., British merchants with
branches all over the East. At the bottom of the trunk was a large
manila envelope, unmarked. The doctor drew out the contents
hopefully.

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a
writer, or is trying to be. And will you look! His name neatly cut
out from each title page. This is clear over my head."

"A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. And yet the secondary emotion
was one of suspicion. That a longing of hers should be realized in
this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested
something of a trap.

"Or trying to be," answered the doctor. "Evidently he could not
destroy these children of his. No doubt they've all been rejected;
but he couldn't throw them overboard. I suspect he has a bit of
vanity. I'll tell you what. I'll leave these out, and to-morrow you
can read them through. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his
identity. To-morrow I'll wire Cook's and the American Express in
Hong-Kong to see if there is any mail. Taber is the name. What is
he--English or American?"

"American. What is a Yale man?"

"Did he say he was a Yale man?"

"He and Ah Cum were talking...."

"I see. Ah Cum is a Yale man and so is this Taber."

"But what is it?"

"An American university. Now, I'll be getting along. Give h