Again he paused, and we could tell that he did not care to say anything more. The story seemed logical. In the hurry and confusion of Warren's departure from China, the six boxes would not be examined very carefully. The story of the lost keys would seem so reasonable that there was not much of a chance Warren would open the boxes. His baggage would come in without examination. I could well understand how the plan to send opium in the three boxes would work. But there was something else; one of the boxes must have gone astray. And as if reading my thoughts Bartley said: “And I presume that through some accident Mr. Warren in delivering the three boxes made a mistake—sent one of the three which was given to him.” The Chinaman simply nodded, and the thin lips shut as if he had made up his mind to talk no more. There were a number of other things we wished to know. Who was the man who had received the three boxes from Warren? And above all who was this Chinaman before us? But though Bartley did his best to have the man answer these questions, he had no success. To them all there came but a bland smile and silence. Somewhere in the house a clock struck three, and as if realizing the hour, Bartley motioned to me and said: “Get the chief, Pelt. Have him come up here with an officer and take this man away.” The Chinaman gave a little start, but whatever he might have felt was not shown in his face. For a moment he studied his hands then raised his eyes and said: “But after all I have done nothing for which I can be given to the police.” “Breaking and entering. Attempted burglary. Possession of a dangerous weapon,” checked off Bartley's cool voice. “So,” was the only comment. I went out into the hall to the telephone. There was some little difficulty in getting the chief. When he did come to the phone, it was a very sleepy voice which said: “Hello.” I knew that I had dragged him out of bed. For a moment his voice showed that he did not understand what I was telling him. Then all at once the tone of sleepiness vanished, and he promised to come out as soon as possible. When I returned to the living room, it was to find that the situation had not changed. In the chair still sat the Chinaman, his entire figure showing boredom. Across from him was Bartley, the gun in his lap, and his eyes never leaving the man across from him. Just after I had sank down into my chair, the Chinaman asked if he could smoke. As Bartley assented, Ranville took a cigarette from his case and took it over to him, striking the match for him to get his light. The man leaned back in his chair as coolly as if he was sitting in some club. Through his narrow half-shut eyes he watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling. But speak he did not, and the glances which he gave us all in turn were very impersonal. Though he knew what we were waiting for yet he showed no anxiety or, for that matter, not the slightest sign of interest.