You know nothing...about anybody. Why he's coming at all...well, that doesn't matter. He's just trash, a soakin' dope. He had his chance, got under it, and went to sleep. Phew! That fellow! He might have been rich, but he sold all his shares. A soak! Rather drink than sit in the Empress of China's council...she's dead. White trash...nothing...h'm."

    He glared up of a sudden and asked harshly:

    "Why the hell are you listening?"

    "Sorry, sir, I thought—"

    "Get out!"

    "Yes, sir," said Walters with alacrity.

    For half an hour old Jesse Trasmere sat where the valet had left him, the red end of his toothpick leaping up and down eccentrically. Then he got up and, going to an old-fashioned bureau, opened the glass front.

    He brought to the table a shallow bowl of white porcelain half filled with Indian ink. His second visit to the secretaire produced a thick pad of paper. It was unusually large, and its texture of a peculiar character. From an open-work iron box he took a long-handled brush, and sitting down again dipped the fine point into the ink.

    Another long interval of inaction and he commenced to write, beginning at the top right-hand corner and working down the page. The grotesque and intricate Chinese characters appeared with magic rapidity. He finished one column and commenced another, and so until the page was covered except for two spaces beneath the last and the penultimate line.

    Laying down the brush he felt, with the slow deliberation of age, in his right-hand waistcoat pocket and pulled out an ivory cylinder as big round as a large pencil. He slipped one end out and pressed it on the paper. When he took the stamp away there appeared within a red circle two Chinese characters. This was Jesse Trasmere's "hong," his sign manual; a thousand merchants from Shanghai to Fi Chen would honour cheques which bore that queer mark, and those for startling sums.

    When the paper was dry he folded it into a small compass and getting up, went to the empty fireplace. Outside on the stairs a deeply interested Walters craned his neck to see what happened. From his position, and through the fanlight above the door, he commanded a view of at least a third of the room.

    But now Jesse had passed out of sight, and although he stretched himself perilously he could not see what was happening. Only, when the old man reappeared the paper was no longer in his hand.

    He touched a bell, and Walters came at once.

    "Remember," he rasped, "I am not at home—to anybody!"

    "Very good, sir," said Walters, a little impatiently.

    Mr. Trasmere had gone out that afternoon when the visitor called.

    It was unfortunate for the old man's scheme that the China mail had made a record voyage and had arrived thirty-six hours ahead of her scheduled time. Mr. Trasmere was not a reader of newspapers, or he would have learnt the fact in that morning's paper.

    Walters answered the bell after some delay, for he was busily engaged in his own room on a matter that was entirely private to himself, and when he did answer the tinkling summons it was to find a brown-faced stranger standing on the broad step. He was dressed in an old suit which did not fit him, his linen was stained, and his boots were patched, but his manner would not have been out of place in Lorenzo the Magnificent.

    With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, his soiled soft hat on the back of his head, he met the inquiring and deferential gaze of Walters with a calm and insolent stare, for Mr. Brown was rather drunk.

    "Well, well, my man," he said impatiently, "why the devil do you keep me waiting on the doorstep of my friend Jesse's house, eh?" He removed one of his hands from his pocket, possibly not the cleanest one, and tugged at his short grey beard.

    "Mr.—er—Mr. Trasmere is out," said Walters, "I will tell him you have called. What name, sir?"

    "Wellington Brown is my name, good fellow," said the stranger. "Wellington Brown from Chei-feu. I will come in and wait."

    But Walters barred the way.

    "Mr. Trasmere has given me strict orders not to admit anybody unless he is in the house," he said.

    A wave of anger turned Wellington Brown's face to a deeper red.

    "He has given orders!" he spluttered. "That I am not to be admitted—I, Wellington Brown, who made his fortune, the swindling old thief! He knows I am coming!"

    "Are you from China, sir?" blurted Walters.

    "I have told you, menial and boot-licking yellow-plush, that I am from Chei-feu.