n Peter's mind as the green coast of
Japan heaved over the horizon. With each thrust of the _Vandalia's_
screws the cipher was nearing its solution. Each cylinder throb
narrowed the distance to the shore lights of China--the lights of
Tsung-min Island. And then--what?

In a corner of the smoking-room he puffed at his cigarette and watched
the poker players as he drummed absently upon the square of green cork
inlaid in the corner table. The vermilion glow of the skylight dimmed
and died. Lights came on. A clanging cymbal in the energetic hands of
a deck steward boomed at the doorway, withdrew and gave up its life in
a far away, tinny clatter.

The petulant voice of a hardware salesman, who was secretly known to
represent American moneyed interests in Mongolia, drifted through the
haze of tobacco smoke at the poker table.

"----that's what I'd like to know. Damn nonsense--saving steam,
probably--off Wu-Sung before midnight--if--wanted to throw in a little
coal--means I miss the river boat to-morrow--not another--Saturday.
Dammit!"

Peter drew long at the cigarette and glanced thoughtfully at the
oak-paneled ceiling. Chips clicked. The petulant voice continued:

"----rottenest luck ever had." Evidently he was referring to his
losses. "Rotten line--rottener service--miss my man--Mukden----" The
voice ceased as its owner half turned his head, magnetized by the
intentness of the operator's gaze. Peter glanced away. The salesman
devoted himself to the dealer.

The _Vandalia_ was bearing into a thin mist. The night was cool,
quiet. Had he been on deck Peter would have seen the last lights of
Osezaki engulfed as if at the dropping of a curtain.

During the voyage he had haunted the smoking-room, hoping that by dint
of patient listening he might catch an informative word dropped
carelessly by one of the players. No such luck. The players were
out-of-season tourists, bound for South China or India, or salesmen,
patiently immersed in the long and strenuous task of killing time.

"----thirty--thirty-five--forty--forty-five----" The fat man was
counting his losings.

Faint, padded footsteps passed the port doorway. Peter became aware of
an elusive perfume--scented rice powder----

"----seventy-five--eighty--eighty-five--ninety----"

A pale, malignant face was framed momentarily in one of the starboard
windows.

Peter blinked, then bounded after. The salesman impeded his progress
and grudgingly gav