The man-servant, in eager obedience to Miss Kendrick’s hint, took the Chinaman by the shoulders, and amid protesting exclamations of "Wha’ fo’? Wha’ fo’?" ran him out of the hall, and started him down the steps, his speeding word to the departing guest taking the form of: "Get out of here, John, and if you come back I’ll kick you out." Then suddenly catching sight of me, he recovered his breath and his dignity with a sudden effort. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Hampden," he gasped. "I didn’t know you was here. Mr. Kendrick is just done dinner. He’s gone to his smoking-room. He said if you came I was to show you right in." And with a glance to see that the Chinaman had reached the sidewalk, he shut the door and led the way to the master of the house. I followed him mechanically, but my thoughts were far from the errand of Peter Bolton’s schemes that had brought me hither. An insistent question ran through my mind in endless variations, but when reduced to words it took this form: "Where have I seen the face of the old Chinaman before?" *CHAPTER XVI* *LAYING DOWN THE LAW* Wharton Kendrick sat at his ease in smoking-jacket and slippers, but his brow was wrinkled with thought. The cigar that he held between his teeth gave evidence of his discomposure of mind, for it was unlighted, and one end of it had been reduced to the semblance of a cud. I had just delivered to him a conscientious account of my interview with Peter Bolton, and now observed the perturbant reflections that it had stirred. "Was that all you could get out of the old rascal?" he said after an interval of silence. "Why, yes," I replied. "I thought it was a pretty good afternoon’s work; and indeed I am surprised that he told me so much." "Oh, thunder, Hampden, you’re as easily taken in as the rest of ’em. Didn’t I tell you that Peter Bolton is never in the place you’re looking for him?" "Why," I argued, somewhat piqued at this reception of my budget of information, "I thought he told a good deal about his plans--in fact, showed himself a garrulous old foozle instead of the shrewd fox you’d told me about." "My dear boy," said Wharton Kendrick with a pitying smile, "I’m grateful for your zeal, but the only thing he exposed was his desire to get you to betray me, and I might have guessed that without his telling it." "But that half-million of notes--" "Doesn’t it strike you, Hampden, that, as a business man, I might be expected to know something about the notes outstanding against me? You’re right about one thing: I didn’t know they had fallen into Bolton’s hands, and I’ll have a score to settle with the men who sold ’em to him. But I’ve got every piece of my paper recorded up here," and he tapped his forehead, "and I’ll be prepared to take care of it as it falls due." "Well," I said ruefully, "I’m just one more victim of misplaced confidence in Peter Bolton."