Once more Kenyon bowed, laughingly. “If it is all the same to you, I prefer to stand,” said he. “And I think, gentlemen, you may trust me to keep myself in a fairly calm state of mind. As to your pleasure at sight of me,” and his eyes twinkled humorously, “permit me to say that you did not appear in any great hurry to display it.” The Celestial’s lips drew back from his prominent teeth in what was meant for a smile; Kenyon, in spite of his self-control, could not help a slight shudder. The almost fleshless face, the shaven crown, and sunken eyes made the man look like a death’s-head. “I trust you will pardon our silence,” said he, in slowly spoken, perfect English. “Pray don’t speak of it,” returned Kenyon. “Strangers sometimes find it extremely difficult to pick material for conversation; and I never take offence at any man’s shrinking from the conversational idiocies of such occasions.” Again the yellow man smiled his ghastly smile; but his companion laughed outright. “I say,” said he, in the big-boyish way that his looks had made Kenyon expect, “you’ve got it right, Kenyon. I hate all that sort of rot myself. When I talk, I like it straight from the shoulder--I want it to mean something, you know.” There was a hearty, engaging sort of candor in his voice and manner common to the big-bodied, out-door man. But still there was an undercurrent of some inexplicable sort that focussed Kenyon’s attention instantly upon him. The frank smile was there, the genial look that one would expect was in his eye; the eager, boyish spirit seemed to fill him. “But he’s off-shade somewhere,” Kenyon told himself. “I don’t know just where; but if I talk to him long enough I’ll get him located and classed.” The Chinaman leaned forward, motioning his companion to be silent. Instantly the young man seemed to withdraw into himself. “The yellow one is the intellect,” was Kenyon’s thought as his alert glance took this in. “And I shouldn’t wonder but what we were now coming to business.” The eyes of the Chinaman fixed themselves upon Kenyon’s face. Sunken and slanted as they were usually, they presented a strange, uncanny appearance; but now their lids were puckered over them; and through each slit a burning, rat-like eye looked forth. “In this Western world, Mr. Kenyon,” said he, “it is the conventional thing for strangers, I understand, to discuss the weather.” He bent forward and the burning slits of eyes seemed to be boring the young man through. “This being so,” he continued, “might I ask what sort of weather you were having in Butte when you left there?” The question was quietly asked; but Kenyon instantly felt the weight of their intense expectancy as though by telepathic messages. Both the faces before him were now as expressionless as plaster masks; with semi-fascinated eyes he watched the twitching of one claw-like, yellow hand as it lay upon the Chinaman’s knee. Nevertheless he did not lose his poise for a moment.