One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. What was this man?" "A detective from the States. There were three exit doors. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. It was his belief that the French had enough troubles of their own in these difficult times without bothering to nose out British business. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. And always they were well satisfied. I wonder——” He turned slowly round.
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