“I have confidence in your ability as an actress, Josephine,” he said. “I am sure you can play the part of a lady as well as anything else.” She flushed. “Score one,” she said. Then she sprang to her feet, the old light of mischief in her wonderful eyes. “But, my God, Herby, what’s going to happen when I spring all my spangles on the innocent public?” “I shudder when I think of it,” said he, lifting his eyes heavenward. “I saved every respectable costume I’ve worn in the last ten years—and some that are shocking. Twelve trunks full of them. I’ll knock their eyes out when I come on as the Princess Jalinka—last act glorification—and as for the gold and turquoise gown that caused old London to blink its weary eyes and catch its jaded breath—my word, Herby, old thing, they’ll have me up for wholesale murder. They’ll die all over the place.” “I really ought to caution you, Josephine—” “Never mind, old dear. I sha’n’t disgrace you. I’ve got a few costumes I will put on in private for you—and I wouldn’t feel safe in putting ’em on privately for any one except a preacher in whom I had the most unusual confidence. Bless your heart, Herby, don’t look so horrified. I’ve still got my marriage certificate—though God only knows where it is.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got it, my dear. You neglected to take it away with you when you left.” She smiled. “Well, I daresay it was safer with you than it would have been with me.” CHAPTER XX DETECTIVE MALONE It was the fourth week in September when the detectives arrived in Rumley; Oliver’s dredgers had completed their contract; the swamp was clear of men, machines and horses. The city editor of the _Despatch_ interviewed Detective Malone, the chief operative in charge of what the newspaper man and others, including Oliver October, were jocosely inclined to classify as the “expedition.” “Where do you intend to begin excavating, Mr. Malone?” inquired the editor, notebook in hand. They were in the lobby of the Hubbard House. “And when?” he added. Mr. Malone was very frank about it. “In China,” said he. “We’re going to work from the bottom up. If you’ll go out to the swamp to-morrow or next day and put your ear to the ground—and hold it there long enough—you’ll hear men’s voices but you won’t understand a word they say. They’ll be speakin’ Chinese. We’ve got thirty-five thousand coolies digging their way up from Shanghai, and according to schedule they ought to be here by to-morrow morning unless they’ve had a cave-in or stopped off in hell for breakfast.” The editor eyed him in a cold, inimical manner. “Umph!” he grunted, flopping his notebook shut. “It’s a good thing you’ve got your Chinese army, because you won’t be able to get anybody to work for you in this town. That’s how we feel about this business, Mr. Malone—rich and poor, high and low. There isn’t a dago here who will lift a spade to help you.”