This missive, written in a beautiful Spencerian hand, was for some minutes a puzzle. I read over its tangle-worded lines two or three times before it dawned upon me that it must concern the lottery ticket that I had purchased in Peter Bolton’s office. The ticket had been handed to me with the promise that I should have "heap big money," and I drew from the letter’s flowery but uncertain language the inference that the promise had been fulfilled. If confirmation had been necessary, the letter confirmed the testimony of my eyes when they had assured me that the seller of the ticket was Big Sam. It was impossible that any other Chinese would have known that I was the holder of the paper, or would have procured the sending of the derangement of words that had come over the name of Kwan Luey. As nothing more important called for my attention I indulged my curiosity by setting put at once for Kwan Luey’s store. Kwan Luey showed himself superior to any narrow prejudices in regard to the objects in which it was fitting for a merchant to trade. In one window he exhibited a fine collection of silks, ebony carvings, sandal-wood ornaments, and figured Chinese coats. In the other he had piled all manner of fine porcelain, ivory and lacquered ware. The counters in the front part of the store showed a similar division of salable goods. Farther back could be seen mats of rice, boxes of tea, bags of Chinese roots, and piles of mysterious and uncanny Chinese edibles. In his office clerks were counting Mexican dollars and packing them in stout boxes for shipping to China, the earnings of his countrymen. The closed rear rooms, I surmised, were devoted to the operation of the two or three lotteries he was reputed to control. Kwan Luey himself stood just outside his office, a short, well-fed, well-dressed Chinaman, whose rounded, dark-brown face denoted a cheerful mind. I called him by name. "What you wan’?" he asked suspiciously, prepared to deny his identity if my errand were not to his liking. I introduced myself, and as my name brought no sign of enlightenment to his face, I presented his letter as a card of identification. He gravely read it with all the pride of authorship kindling in his eye, and as gravely handed it back to me. "How you like him, eh? Plitty good letteh, eh?" I assured him that I could not have bettered it myself. Kwan Luey gave a gratified smile. "I lite him," he explained. "I go Mission school fo’ yeah. I leahn lite, all same copy-book. I all same beat teacheh, eh?" "You are a Christian Chinaman, then, Kwan Luey?" "You Clistian?" he asked. "I hope so." He gave me a sly glance, and said: "I Clistian Chinaman when Clistian man wan’ buy goods." "But not when Clistian man wants money?" I asked. Kwan Luey smiled the bland smile of China, and made no direct reply. "You wan’ money, eh?" he said. "You heap lucky, eh?" "Well, I don’t know." "You catch-em ticket?"