A day north out of Hong Kong on one of the Empress steamers, Noreen drew her chair to a sheltered place on the promenade to rest an hour. The afternoon was keen and renovating after the slow days of heat in the Indian Ocean. Two Americans were standing at a little distance, and one was speaking with animation. A sentence of his reached the woman’s ears from time to time, between boisterous rushes of wind.... “One of the best talkers I ever heard in my life.”... “No personal hate about it.”... “Literally quartered England and fed her to the pigs.”... “No, wouldn’t give me his name, but I learned it.”... “When I mentioned his name afterward to an Englishman, he turned pale, as if I had turned loose the devil.”... “Speaking of famine conditions, this Routledge----” Mr. Jasper, whose Indian studies had been put aside for the time by the pressing call of human interest to Tokyo, turned quickly just now at the touch of a hand upon his sleeve, and found a woman whose face he is still remembering--even as he enjoys recalling all the words and phrases of the mysterious stranger of Rydamphur. “Forgive me, sir,” Noreen panted, “but I could not help overhearing something you said. You--you mentioned a name that is very dear to me--Routledge!” “I did--yes. A man I met in Rydamphur, of the Central Provinces of India. Excuse me, did you say he was dear to you?” “Yes.” “That is so queer--a rather pleasant surprise for me. Others have felt differently about Routledge. Are you sure you mean this man--a very tall fellow of thirty-three or thirty-four, with a thin, dark, striking face, and a striking way of putting things in words?” “Yes,” she said breathlessly. Jasper offered his card. “I am Miss Cardinegh, Mr. Jasper. Won’t you please tell me all that you can about him. It means so much to me.... Shall we go into the reading-room?” Jasper assented, begging leave from his companion.... They sat down together, and the American restored Rydamphur from memory. Since he had thought much of his day and night in that little centre of suffering, he built the picture rather well. He described the manner of Routledge, and related a few of the famine facts as he had drawn them in that evening-hour at the Rest House. “As I look back on it all, there is a queer atmosphere about the whole affair,” said Jasper. “Such a place I never have known, as that little dining-room in Rydamphur. Mr. Routledge seemed to grasp at once that my interest was sincere. His mind was filled with the pith of things I wanted to learn. No Englishman seemed to be able to talk impersonally on the famine.... I’ll never forget the baking night in that house. The punkahs jerked every moment or so, as if the coolie had stopped to scratch himself. There was a cat-footed servant hanging about, and the lamps were turned low--as if a bright flame could not live in that burned air.”