"Stires is a friend of mine." I spoke with some difficulty, for though we were not running, we were hitting up a quick pace. Follet was all colors of the rainbow, and I looked for him to give out presently, but he kept on. "Ching Po, too?" he sneered. "Not a bit of it. But they won't stand for murder in open daylight--even _your_ friends." We were very near Stires's place by this time. There was no sign of any one in the yard; it was inhabited solely by the familiar rusty monsters of Stires's trade. As we drew up alongside, I looked through the window. Stires and Ching Po were within, and from the sibilant noise that stirred the peaceful air, I judged that Ching Po was talking. Their backs were turned to the outer world. I pushed open the door, and Follet and I entered. For the first time I found myself greeted with open hostility by my fellow countryman. "What the devil are you doing here?" I was annoyed. The way they all dragged me in and then cursed me for being there! The Chinaman stood with his hands folded in his wicked sleeves, his eyes on the ground. In the semi-gloom of Stires's warehouse, his face looked like a mouldy orange. He was yellower even than his race permitted--outside and in. "If I can't be of any service to you or Miss Eva, I should be only too glad to go home," I retorted. "What about her?" asked Stires truculently. He advanced two steps towards me. "I'm not looking for trouble--" It seemed to me just then that I hated Naapu as I had never hated any place in the world. "She's having hysterics up at Madame Mauer's. I fancy that's why we're here. Your yellow friend there seems to have been responsible for the hysterics. This other gentleman and I"--I waved a hand at Follet, who stood, spent and silent, beside me--"resented it. We thought we would follow him up." How much Ching Po understood of plain English, I do not know. One always conversed with him in the pidgin variety. But he certainly looked at peace with the world: much as the devil must have looked, gazing at Pompeii in the year '79. "You can do your resenting somewheres else," snapped Stires. "Both of you." "I go," murmured Ching Po. He stepped delicately towards the door. "No, you don't!" Follet's foot shot out to trip him. But the Chinaman melted past the crude interruption. "I go," he repeated, with ineffable sadness, from the threshold. The thing was utterly beyond me. I stood stock-still. The two men, Follet and Stires, faced each other for an instant. Then Follet swung round and dashed after Ching Po. I saw him clutch the loose black sleeve and murmur in the flat ear. Stires seemed to relent towards me now that Follet was gone. "Let 'em alone," he grunted. "The Chink won't do anything but tell him a few things. And like as not, he knows 'em already, the--" The word indicated his passionate opinion of Follet.