The jetty at Shanghai was crowded with passengers just off a tender from one of the big liners, such a crowd as Megan herself had landed with so short a time before. Now in her soiled Chinese robe she sat huddled on a bench while Mr. Shultz went to a near-by alley off Nanking Road, across from the Palace Hotel, to get a taxi. Megan could not endure to wait in the Palace while he got one, but here on the jetty no one particularly noticed her. In the taxi they sat in silence, driven recklessly along the winding Avenue Foch between lines of tangled barbed wire. It seemed strange to see the barricades again, strange to them just risen out of China like drowned men from deep water. As they neared the Jacksons' house, Megan said: "Forgive my saying this, but I've been so dependent on you, you won't mind. You must promise me that if you need any money now or any help, you'll let me know." "Well, that is very kind of you, I am sure," said Mr. Shultz. "But I sent some money to Shanghai a few days ago for safe-keeping. I sent it in my name. If it is safe I'm fixed. If it isn't, I've got other lines out. You forget, Miss Davis, I'm a financial adviser!" When they reached the house she said, "You will come in with me?" "Not now. I'll be around some time later." They shook hands lingeringly. "You've been splendid," said Megan. "Thanks. You have too." "No, no, you were the one. You were splendid." Mr. Shultz repeated, "Well, thanks." They were friends now, not so much because they had shared danger, as because each had found something in the other to forgive and had forgiven it. He watched her up the steps and saw the door opened before he drove off. The number one boy stood at the door glassy-eyed with amazement at the sight of Megan in her Chinese dress. "Missie no have got," he stammered. "Master no have got. Other master have got." "It must be Bob," thought Megan, and at the door of the little drawing-room she paused, trying to control the sudden pounding of her heart. But it was not Bob. Doctor Strike, his head wrapped in bandages, sat in a chair by the window. His eyes were closed, his mouth, relaxed from its austere tightness, was slack, a little open. He was asleep, and his sleep exposed him to her; he was sick and old, and he had, to all appearances, failed. Megan now knew how much. She had herself measured the very depth of his failure. As she looked at him, his eyes opened. Dazed with sleep he looked at her unknowingly, and suddenly they lighted from within. "Miss Davis!" he cried. Megan went to him and took both his outstretched hands. "Don't get up, you are still ill. Were you badly hurt?" "Yes, hurt," he repeated. A little red plush stool, with a book on it, stood by his feet. Megan pushed the book off and sat down. He still held her hand, gripping it with nervous bony force, not taking his eyes from hers. "I've prayed for you, my child," he said, "every hour since. I thank God."