you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the ‘Yellow Peril’ incarnate in one man.”      

       This visit of Eltham’s no doubt was responsible for my mood; for this singular clergyman had played his part in the drama of two years ago.     

       “I should like to see Smith again,” he said suddenly; “it seems a pity that a man like that should be buried in Burma. Burma makes a mess of the best of men, Doctor. You said he was not married?”      

       “No,” I replied shortly, “and is never likely to be, now.”      

       “Ah, you hinted at something of the kind.”      

       “I know very little of it. Nayland Smith is not the kind of man to talk much.”      

       “Quite so—quite so! And, you know, Doctor, neither am I; but”—he was growing painfully embarrassed—“it may be your due—I—er—I have a correspondent, in the interior of China—”      

       “Well?” I said, watching him in sudden eagerness.     

       “Well, I would not desire to raise—vain hopes—nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but—er... no, Doctor!” He flushed like a girl—“It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more—will you forget my words, for the time?”      

       The telephone bell rang.     

       “Hullo!” cried Eltham—“hard luck, Doctor!”—but I could see that he welcomed the interruption. “Why!” he added, “it is one o’clock!”      

       I went to the telephone.     

       “Is that Dr. Petrie?” inquired a woman’s voice.     

       “Yes; who is speaking?”      

       “Mrs. Hewett has been taken more seriously ill. Could you come at once?”      

       “Certainly,” I replied, for Mrs. Hewett was not only a profitable patient but an estimable lady—“I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour.”      

       I hung up the receiver.     

       “Something urgent?” asked Eltham, emptying his pipe.     

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