orbed the Chinaman; and if Stires was at
home, the two were face to face. I made this known to Follet.

"Give me back my pistol," he panted.

"Not on your life," I said, and jammed it well into my pocket.

"What in hell have you got to do with it?" he snarled.

"Stires is a friend of mine." I spoke with some difficulty, for though
we were not running, we were hitting up a quick pace. Follet was all
colors of the rainbow, and I looked for him to give out presently, but
he kept on.

"Ching Po, too?" he sneered.

"Not a bit of it. But they won't stand for murder in open daylight--even
_your_ friends."

We were very near Stires's place by this time. There was no sign of any
one in the yard; it was inhabited solely by the familiar rusty monsters
of Stires's trade. As we drew up alongside, I looked through the window.
Stires and Ching Po were within, and from the sibilant noise that
stirred the peaceful air, I judged that Ching Po was talking. Their
backs were turned to the outer world. I pushed open the door, and Follet
and I entered.

For the first time I found myself greeted with open hostility by my
fellow countryman. "What the devil are you doing here?" I was annoyed.
The way they all dragged me in and then cursed me for being there! The
Chinaman stood with his hands folded in his wicked sleeves, his eyes on
the ground. In the semi-gloom of Stires's warehouse, his face looked
like a mouldy orange. He was yellower even than his race
permitted--outside and in.

"If I can't be of any service to you or Miss Eva, I should be only too
glad to go home," I retorted.

"What about her?" asked Stires truculently. He advanced two steps
towards me.

"I'm not looking for trouble--" It seemed to me just then that I hated
Naapu as I had never hated any place in the world. "She's having
hysterics up at Madame Mauer's. I fancy that's why we're here. Your
yellow friend there seems to have been responsible for the hysterics.
This other gentleman and I"--I waved a hand at Follet, who stood, spent
and silent, beside me--"resented it. We thought we would follow him up."

How much Ching Po understood of plain English, I do not know. One always
conversed with him in the pidgin variety. But he certainly looked at
peace with the world: much as the devil must have looked, gazing at
Pompeii in the year '79.

"You can do your resenting somewheres else," snapped Stires. "Both of
you."

"I go," murmured Ching Po. He stepped delicatel