latter. As a matter of fact,
Miss Vost was simply a young woman very far from home, compelled to
believe in and on occasion to resort to primitive methods of
self-defense.

Peter took a rickshaw to the river. He picked out the _Hankow_ among
the clutter of shipping, anchored not far from shore, and out of reach
of the swift current which rushed dangerously down midchannel. Black
smoke issued from her single chubby funnel. Blue-coated coolies sped
to and fro on her single narrow deck. Bobbie MacLaurin leaned far out
across the rail as Peter's sampan slapped smartly alongside. The
coolie thrashed the water into yellowy foam.

"Have you seen Miss Vost?" shouted MacLaurin above the hiss of escaping
steam. "We pull out in an hour, Miss Vost or no Miss Vost. That's
orders."

Peter, reaching the deck, scanned the pagoda-dotted shore-front.
"She'll be here," he said.

Pu-Chang, the _Hankow's_ pilot, a slender, grayed Chinese, grown old
before his time, in the river service, sidled between them, smiling
mistily, and asked his captain if the new tow-line had been delivered.
While MacLaurin went to make inquiries, Peter watched a sampan, bow on,
floating down-stream, with the intention, evidently, of making
connections with the _Hankow's_ ladder. On her abrupt foredeck was a
slim figure of blue and white.

Startled a little by recollection, Peter leaned far out. For a moment
he had imagined the white face to be that of Eileen Lorimer. The
demure attitude of Miss Vost's hands, caught by the finger-tips before
her, gave further grounds to Peter Moore for the comparison. Her youth
and innocence had as much to do with it as anything, for there was
undeniably an air of youth and extreme innocence about Miss Vost.

Something in the shape of a triumphant bellow was roared from the
engine-room companionway. Whereupon the companionway disgorged the
monumental figure of Bobbie MacLaurin, grinning like a schoolboy at his
first party. He seized Miss Vost by both hands, swinging her neatly to
the deck.

She panted and fell back against the rail, holding her hand to her
heart, and welcoming Bobbie MacLaurin by a glance that was not entirely
cordial.

"The sampan boy hasn't been paid," she remarked, opening her purse.
"It's twenty cents."

While MacLaurin pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and spun it to
the anxious coolie, Miss Vost turned with the warmest of smiles to
Peter. Rarely had any girl seemed more deli