elf into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.

The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bund
was a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.

He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammy
oilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmire
that was Shanghai.

The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping,
under the porte-cochere of the Astor House Hotel, where a majestic
Indian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, opened
umbrella.

Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.
However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress and
come down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpse
of Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was he
hungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!

He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to
the room-boy to deliver.

He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:

Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try to
make it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.

At Soochow! There he was--at it again! A trifler.

"Damn my withered-up sense of honor, anyway!" observed Peter Moore to
himself, as he climbed into the rain-soaked rickshaw.

CHAPTER XI

With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like a
large, yellow mountain; for his pajamas--every square yard of
them--were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when it
reposes low on China's horizon.

Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, he
drained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jug
upon the incumbent of the bedroom's other bed.

At such times as this critical one, the smiling destiny which held the
fate of Peter Moore in the hollow of her precious hand was ever
watchful, and the white water-jug caromed from his peaceful figure with
no more than an unimportant thud. The jug bounded to the floor and
ended its career against the hard wall. Peter Moore sat up, rubbing
his eyes.

"Dead or alive, Peter?"

"You nearly broke my back."

"Serves you right, old slug-abed! You tucked me in last night with the
warning that we pick up the early express for Nanking."

"Quite so," admitted Peter Moore thickly. In the past two days he had
managed to set aside altogether four hours for sleep; and