The shooting died away, and the Orientals scampered like rats back to their holes. Two or three who had received bullets in their legs, were lying in the middle of the street. Then came a couple of patrol wagons and an ambulance, into which the wounded were lifted, and quick trips made to hospitals. The police took several prisoners, who were taken to the station-house, and then—the street became quiet again. Save for a few revolvers which the owners had thrown away, there remained no sign of the riot, and Larry could hardly believe that he had witnessed it. It seemed like a dream. “I must telephone the paper about it,” he thought. “Then I’ll keep on after that man.” Noting the address of the house into which the pawner of the ring had vanished, Larry went back to the Bowery, where he found a public telephone, and was soon in communication with Mr. Emberg. “You stay where you are until I can send one of the reporters down to see you,” the city editor said. “You can tell him what happened, and he can write the story. Then you can go on with your hunt. I hope you’ll succeed. Do you need any help?” “I guess I can get along for a while yet,” answered Larry. “I only want to locate a certain place, and then I’ll get Mr. Newton to advise me.” He waited in the telephone station until the reporter from the _Leader_ arrived. Then, accompanied by him, Larry went back to Chinatown. The other reporter got a lot of information about the riot, and, with what Larry had told him, soon had enough for a good lively story. “Now here goes to see what’s in that house,” murmured Larry, when the reporter had left him. “I hope I get on the track of the Rising Sun. I wonder what it means, anyhow.” Not without some little fear did he enter the dark hallway. It was not a pleasant place. There were odd and noisome smells, for the place, like most of those in Chinatown, was more or less of an opium joint. Then there was the odor of the Joss sticks burning in a sort of improvised temple in the rear of the first floor. Up the stairs Larry went. He hardly knew what he was going to do, nor, if he was questioned by anyone, did he know what he would say. He was trusting to luck. As he passed through the dimly-lighted halls a door would open here and there, and the head of a Chinese would be poked out. But the portal was quickly closed again when the owner of the head saw it was an American youth. After a riot such as had just transpired, the Chinese had no desire to answer embarrassing questions such as they knew the Americans asked. The Americans were too curious, the Celestials thought. So it was best to stay in one’s room, and pretend not to hear or see anything. Thus Larry was not interfered with or molested, as he might have been on another occasion.