ghted to see him, for
which, under the circumstances, he found it somewhat difficult to be
grateful.

He experienced again that dull feeling of guilt. He felt that she
ought to show more cordiality to Bobbie MacLaurin. Here was Bobbie,
trailing after her like a faithful dog, on the most hazardous trip that
any man could devise, and he had not been rewarded, so far, with even
the stingiest of smiles.

Women were like that. They took the fruits of your work, or they took
your life, or let you toss it to the crows, without a sign of
gratitude. At least, _some_ women were like that. He had hoped Miss
Vost was not that kind. He had hoped----

Miss Vost laid her small, warm hand in his, and she seemed perfectly
willing to let it linger. Her lips were parted in a smile that was all
but a caress. She seemed to have forgotten that the baffled young man
who stared so fixedly at the back of her pretty, white neck existed.

It was quite embarrassing for Peter. The feeling of the little hand,
that lay so intimately within his, sent a warm glow stealing into his
guilty heart.

Then, aware of the pain in the face of Bobbie MacLaurin, a face that
had abruptly gone white, and realizing his duty to this true friend of
his, he pushed Miss Vost's hands away from him.

That gesture served to bring them all back to earth.

"Aren't you glad--aren't you a little bit glad--to see me--me?" said
the hurt voice of Bobbie MacLaurin.

Miss Vost pivoted gracefully, giving Peter Moore a view of her
splendid, straight back for a change. "Of course I am, Bobbie!" she
exclaimed. "I'm always glad to see you. Why--oh, look! Did you ever
see such a Chinaman?"

They all joined in her look. A salmon-colored sampan was riding
swiftly to the _Hankow's_ riveted steel side. With long legs spread
wide apart atop the low cabin stood a very tall, very grave Chinese.
His long, blanched face was more than grave, more than austere.

Peter Moore stared and ransacked his memory. He had seen that face,
that grimace, before. His mind went back to the shop front, on Nanking
Road, last evening, when he was skulking toward the bund from the
friendly establishment of his friend, the silk merchant, Ching Gow Ong.

This man was neither Cantonese nor Pekingese. His long, rather
supercilious face, his aquiline nose, the flare of his nostrils, the
back-tilted head, the high, narrow brow, and the shock of blue-black
hair identified the Chinese strange