“Curious coincidence that,” he said at last. “I just wanted to meet someone who knew Shanghai, and I had forgotten you had lived in Hong Kong.” “The friend I speak of knows Shanghai inside out, which I am afraid I don’t,” Johnson answered. “Shall I give you an introduction to him?” “I wish you would, Johnson,” Hopford answered eagerly. “And under the circumstances I should like to stay with him, if he will have me. Do you happen ever to have known a man in Shanghai named Fobart Robertson?” “I should say so!” his companion exclaimed. “One of the worst--a mere adventurer. He married----” He checked himself. “Mrs. Mervyn-Robertson!” Hopford said excitedly. “I didn’t say so,” Johnson replied, slightly put out by the young man’s rapidity of thought. “You didn’t say so, but you mean it--and you know it was so!” Hopford observed triumphantly. “This is splendid! The parts of the puzzle are fitting themselves in just as I expected they would. Now I wonder if you knew another man out East, in Shanghai or Hong Kong, or some place of that sort, whose name was Timothy Macmahon? When Lord Froissart committed suicide he left the whole of his fortune to a Mrs. Macmahon, who is Timothy Macmahon’s widow.” “Yes. Macmahon, too, lived in Shanghai at one time; also Julius Stringborg, who now lives in Upper Bruton Street, and was a spirit merchant in Shanghai and Hong Kong when I practiced out there--husband of the woman whose necklace was stolen at the Albert Hall ball and who charged Miss Hagerston with the theft, if you remember. But, as I say, my former _locum tenens_ who now lives in Paris is the man you want to meet if you are seeking information about former British residents in Shanghai. Before you leave Jersey I will give you a letter addressed to him.” “That’s awfully good of you, Johnson,” Hopford said in a tone of deep gratitude. “You have no idea how keen I am to solve the problem of all these mysteries, as much out of personal curiosity as from a natural desire to score a newspaper scoop.” For a long time they continued to converse, and the more they talked the more deeply impressed Johnson became by the young man’s exceptional acumen. “If at any time you should hear any gossip concerning Mrs. Hartsilver, Hopford,” he presently said carelessly, “you might let me know in confidence.” Hopford turned quickly. “Why,” he exclaimed. “I have heard gossip about her already, and I don’t believe a word of it. Shall I tell you what it is? Of course you won’t repeat it.” “Of course. What have you heard?” The anxiety his tone betrayed was not lost upon the young journalist, though Johnson had tried to conceal it. Instantly he concluded the doctor must be interested in the young widow. “Yes,” he commented mentally, “obviously deeply interested.”