He had slipped the gutta-percha pads out of his cheeks--an operation to which I had grown quite accustomed--and I could see his face as it really was. "That's occurred to me also," he replied, "but somehow or other I'm sure the fates are on our side to-night." He arose, turned away for a moment, there was a click and a gasp, and he was the little impassive Oriental again. He glided up to me, put his yellow hand with the long, polished finger nails upon my shoulder, and said in my ear: "Sir Thomas, he must see Her every day!" He vanished from the room almost as he spoke, and left me with blood on fire. I was to see some one who might have spoken with Juanita that very day! and I sat almost trembling with impatience, though issuing a dozen warnings to myself to betray nothing, to keep every sense alert, so that I might turn the interview to my own advantage. At last there was a knock on the door, Bill opened it and the slim figure of the man I had rescued glided in. They had dried his clothes, he even wore his little skull cap which had apparently stuck to his head while he was in the water, and I had the opportunity of seeing him in the light for the first time. Instead of the flat, Tartar nose, I saw one boldly aquiline, with large, narrow nostrils. His eyes were almond shaped but lustrous and full of fire. About the lips, which had no trace of sensuality but were beautifully cut, there was a kind of serene pathos--I find it difficult to describe in any other way. The whole face was noble in contour and in expression, though the general impression it gave was one of unutterable sadness. Dress him how you might, meet him where you would, there was no possibility of mistaking Pu-Yi for anything but a gentleman of high degree. The door closed and I rose from my seat and held out my hand. "Well," I said, "this is a bit of orlright, sir, and I'm glad to see you so well recovered. To-morrow morning we'll have the law on them dirty rascals that assaulted you." I put on the accent thickly--flashed my diamond ring at him, in short--for this might well be a game of touch and go, and I had a deep secret to preserve. He put his long, thin hand in mine, gripped it, and then suddenly turned it over so that the backs of my fingers were uppermost. It was an odd thing to do and I wondered what it meant. "Oh, landlord of the Swan of Gold," he piped, in his curious, flute-like voice, sorting out his words as he went on, "I owe you my unworthy life, which is nothing in itself and which I don't value, save only for a certain opportunity which remains to it, and is a private matter. But I owe my life to your courage and strength and flowering kindness, and I come to put myself in your hands." Really he was making a damn lot of fuss about nothing!