“I can’t recall the time and place. Please don’t make me think, Mr. Holland. Where is Rex now?” “He has gone to Italy. He sailed yesterday,” said Tab, and thereupon the girl’s interest in Rex Lander seemed to suffer eclipse. “I should like to have had Trasmere’s real story,” said Tab, “he must have lived an interesting life. It is rather curious that we found nothing in the house reminiscent of his Chinese experience but a small lacquer box, which was empty. The Chinese fascinate me.” “Do they?” she looked at him quickly, “they fascinate me in a way by their kindness.” “You know them; have you lived in China?” She shook her head. “I know one or two,” she said, and paused as though she were considering whether it was advisable to say any more. “When I first came to town from service--” He gaped at her. “I don’t quite get that--by ‘service’ what do you mean? You don’t mean domestic service--you weren’t a cook or anything?” he asked jocularly, and to his amazement she nodded. “I was a sort of tweeny maid: peeled potatoes and washed dishes,” she said calmly, “I was only thirteen at the time. But that is another story, as Mr. Kipling says. At this age, and before I went to school, I met a Chinaman whose son was very ill. He lodged in the house where I was staying. The landlady wasn’t a very humane sort of person, and being Chinese, she thought the poor little boy had some mysterious Eastern disease which she would ‘catch.’ I nursed him, in a way,” she said apologetically, but Tab knew that the apology was not for her condescension, but for her lack of nursing skill. “The father was very poor then, a waiter in a native restaurant, but he was ever so grateful. Quite an extraordinary man--I have seen him since.” “And the child?” “Oh, he got better--his father was dosing him with quaint proprietary medicines. I think he was suffering from enteric fever, and nursing is the only thing that cures that. He’s in China now--quite an important person.” “I should like to have that other story,” said Tab. “Kipling gets my goat. That ‘other story’ of his is never told. I think he must have had them in his mind when he referred to them, but he got lazy on it.” “My other story must keep,” she smiled. “Some day--perhaps--but not now. The father of the boy laid out my little Chinese garden, by-the-way.” Tab had come by train and there was a long walk to the station. He stayed to the very last moment, and then had to hurry to catch the one fast express of the afternoon. He had gone a leisurely hundred yards from the front gate (you cannot walk fast if you turn around at intervals for a glimpse of a cool white figure) when he saw a dusty roadfarer coming toward him. The awkward gait of the walker, his baggy clothes, the huge Derby hat pulled down to his ears, attracted Tab’s attention long before he could distinguish the man’s features. When he did, it was with a spasm of surprise. The walker was a Chinaman and carried in his hand a flat packet.