inexpressible sadness she had seen in the face of the stranger who had resigned his stateroom to her. It troubled her. In the instant that she had turned to find his gaze fixed on her she saw a pain in his eyes so poignant that it hurt her. A soul sounding the deeps of anguish seemed to have been crying out just behind them.

Whitridge, going swiftly along The Bund, was torn by the thoughts which the name of Granville had started. It had been these thoughts which had driven him out of the agency so strangely. He argued and argued with himself that he must be wrong; that there were undoubtedly others of that name in San Francisco. He tried hard to think of other things, but ever the vision of this woman with the golden hair remained dominant. It excluded even the thought of his mother whose message to come home to her before it was too late had decided him in an hour to cross the ocean. His remembrance of the woman was so vivid that she might have waited at his side. The fragrance of her remained in his nostrils. The atmosphere of her girlish freshness clung to him. There was an indefiniteness about her like the mystery of the Spring. The Englishman had been right in thinking she suggested Burne-Jones' "Springtime." She was a veritable gold woman.

As he came to the little hotel hidden away in the fringe of The Bluff's European respectability a Chinaman, waiting as a dog waits, greeted him. It was the Cantonese serang called Chang, who had come out of the maw of death with him in the Kau Lung. Yokohama knew him as Whitridge's shadow.

"Tlunk all pack, master. Him gone ship. What time you sail?" the Chinaman asked in a breath.

"Two o'clock," he answered and looked at his watch. It was past noon. He told Chang to call Suki, the flat-faced woman who ran the hotel servants and who had been so good to him in his first few weeks ashore when the doctors were shrugging their shoulders doubtfully; and her daughter, Oki, and the boy he had nicknamed "Sweeney." He had a little present and a gold piece for each of them—two for Suki.

There were big tears in "Sweeney's" black eyes when "the honorable captain gentleman" said good-by to him. He would never forget him.

"Yes; you will forget, 'Sweeney,'" Whitridge said in Japanese, with a little laugh.

"Oh, yes," agreed Suki, "he will forget. Men forget, but women always remember."

"You know a lot about life, Suki," he answered and turned and 

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