his
friend Hong Sue.

Here he changed from the Oriental costume according to Chinese etiquette
necessary to the homicide, into a nobby suit of American clothes, put on
a false mustache, and walked boldly down Park Row, while just behind
him Doyers and Pell Streets swarmed with bluecoats and excited
citizenry.

Hudson House, the social settlement presided over by Miss Fanny and
affected for business reasons by Mock Hen, was a mile and a half away.
But Mock took his time. Twenty-five full minutes elapsed before he
leisurely climbed the steps and slipped into the big reading room. There
was no one there and Mock deftly turned back the hand of the automatic
clock over the platform to three-fifty-five. Then he began to whistle.
Presently Miss Fanny entered from the rear room, her face lighting with
pleasure at the sight of her pet convert.

"Good afternoon, Mock Hen! You are early to-day."

Mock took her hand and stroked it affectionately.

"I go Fulton Mark' buy li'l' terrapin. Stop in on way to see dear Miss
Fan'."

They stood thus for a moment, and while they did so the clock struck
four.

"I go now!" said Mock suddenly. "Four o'clock already."

"It's early," answered Miss Fanny. "Won't you stay a little while?"

"I go now," he repeated with resolution. "Good-by li'l' teacher!"

She watched until his lithe figure passed through the door, and
presently returned to the back room. Mock waited outside until she had
disappeared.

Then he changed back the clock.

* * * * *

"We've got you, you blarsted heathen!" cried Mooney hoarsely as he and
two others from the Central Office threw themselves upon Mock Hen on the
landing outside the door of his flat. "Look out, Murtha. Pipe that thing
under his arm!"

"It's a bloody turtle!" gasped Murtha, shuddering

"What's the matter, boys?" inquired Mock. "Leggo my arm, can't yer?
What'd yer want, anyway?"

"We want you, you yellow skunk!" retorted Mooney. "Open that door!
Lively now!"

"Sure!" answered Mock amiably. "Come on in! What's bitin' yer?"

He unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Take a chair," he invited them. "Have a cigar? You there, Emma?"

Emma Pratt, clad in a wrapper and lying on the big double brass bedstead
in the rear room, raised herself on one elbow.

"Yep!" she called through the passage. "Got the bird?"

Mock looked at Murtha, who was carrying the terrapin.

"Sure!" he called back. "Sit down, boys. Wh