Our stalwart guide, who looked more like an Irish prize fighter than a shrewd detective, seemed to glory in the game. Every day and every night must seem to him a great adventure. He led us down a black unlighted alley, a cul-de-sac between some tenements, where murders are not infrequent. Suddenly he turned round, on a silent footed follower whom I had not noticed: “What are you sneaking around here for--get out!” he said and flashed his torch in the grimly smiling Chinese face. Just for a second I felt the atmosphere rather tense--the Chinaman hesitated, and then retreated. We pushed open a door ajar. A Chinese prostitute stood smoking her pipe. Soberly dressed, in black silk jacket and trousers, her hair so neat and shiny, her face almost unpainted, she shyly grinned at us. I made a comparison in my mind, between this and the half breed Mexicans at Tampico. In comparison the Chinese was a noblewoman. The police have their hands full in Chinatown, to prevent gambling, doping and prostitution. Though why it should be any concern of the law’s whether a Chinaman, in Chinatown, is solicited by a Chinese prostitute is more than I can understand. This country moves in a mysterious way, its wonder to perform, and one can hope that it knows best. I motored back to Burlingame and hurriedly dressed and arrived extremely late at a dinner party. Wine flowed, and restored my jaded spirits. I looked round the table at the brilliant, cheerful, noisy company and a new thought came to me. I found myself pondering on the high moral standard imposed by the United States. Continually I ask myself this question: “_Is_ the United States more moral than any other country? Are the men and women human, or has legislation and public opinion extinguished the devil that lives in human frames?” I find no answer. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1921. _Monterey._ There is a man in Burlingame who is quite different to anyone else. He is a recluse. It is very strange to be a recluse in Burlingame. He has read more books than anyone I have ever met. Not especially modern books, but he will suddenly tell you what Petrarch said to Laura, or recall Dante, and sometimes be as modern as Stevenson. He is difficult to meet, for he will not go out socially. Yesterday morning he fetched me in his car and motored me to Monterey. I don’t know how far away it is, but we started at 10 A.M. and reached Monterey at sunset. A wonderful road, through miles of orchards and then winding through mountains and forests to the sea. We lunched at Santa Cruz, and when we left the city, a placard on the boundary said that Santa Cruz bade us farewell, hoped we had had a good time, and that we would some day return.