The sun had just set upon the long July day, and the bright afterglow still forbade the use of lamps. And in the misgiving that I should come upon my client before he had finished his dinner, I was about to continue my stroll past the house when I saw the door open and some one walk in. As the door remained hospitably ajar, I changed my intention and climbed the steps. Before I reached the landing I heard an inner door close, and a moment later the voice of Miss Kendrick asked: "Well, what do you want?" "You Miss Kenlick?" came the reply, with an unmistakable Chinese intonation. "Yes, I am Miss Kendrick. What do you want of me?" "You sabby China gell--nice li’l China gell?" The voice of the Chinaman was pitched in a fawning tone, offensive in the obsequiousness of its effort to win the confidence of the hearer. At the words I was startled with the thought that Big Sam had come to survey for himself the situation of Moon Ying with a possible view to her recapture. I was in two minds about my duty in the matter. Had I obeyed my first impulse I should have walked in and expressed my opinion of the attempt in unceremonious terms. But second thought suggested that Miss Kendrick might prefer to manage the affair without interference. A sudden wish to hear her match her wits against the diplomacy of the Oriental proved irresistible, and I determined to await an apparent need for intervention. Her first words reassured me of her ability to handle the situation. "No," she replied calmly, with just the suspicion of a tremble in her voice, "we don’t want any Chinese girl." "No--you sabby gell?" insisted the Chinese voice, with its fawning emphasis. "Nice li’l China gell?" If this was Big Sam, I should be compelled to compliment him on a marvelous control of his vocalization; and in curiosity to see if his bodily disguise was as complete as that of his voice, I peeped about the edge of the door till I caught sight of the oriental figure. My first glimpse of the man assured me that he was not Big Sam. He was small and bent, and gave an inimitable appearance of age. Whatever his capacity for masquerade, Big Sam could not have reduced his bulky form to this figure. The man turned his head a little, and I saw a wizened face, embellished with a mustache of coarse white hair, and scant chin-whiskers that might have belonged to an anemic billy-goat. Miss Kendrick’s face was pale, but its firm expression was an index to her resolve to save Moon Ying from this creature at any cost. "No," she repeated sharply, "we don’t want a Chinese girl--or boy either. We never hire them. You go now." And with a gesture to the man-servant who stood beside her, she turned and was gone without a glance in my direction.