And there it was, nicely printed in the corner with a pen: ROLAND MASTERMANN, GOVERNMENT HOUSE, HONG KONG, CHINA I read it aloud--can't read anything, you know, unless I read it aloud--and looked at Jenkins inquiringly. But he came right up to the scratch; just seemed to get it from somewhere right out of the wall over my head: "Beg pardon, sir; but think it's that London gentleman--entertained you at the Carlton when you were over the other side." Mastermann! By Jove, so it was--I began to remember him now, because I remembered his dinner, several of them, in fact, during the three years I had lived over there, acquiring the English accent--manner, you know--and all that sort of thing! Mastermann--oh, yes, I had him, now! Jolly rum old boy, but entertaining and clever--long hair, pink wart on jaw! And, by Jove, I had promised him--promised him--what the deuce _was_ it I had promised him? Let me see: he was something or other in the foreign office; yes, I had that--and tremendously interested in mummies and psychical investigation and rum sort of things like that, and-- "By Jove!" I ejaculated, as it came to me. "And for that reason he wanted them to send him out to China." "Beg pardon, sir," put in Jenkins, "but think you had a letter with a Chinese postmark last week." He looked around at my little writing-desk and coughed slightly behind his hand. "Was just a-wondering, sir, if it might not be among those you haven't opened--there are several piles. If I might look, sir--" I nodded. Fact is, I allow Jenkins much privilege, owing to long service. Then, you know--oh, dash it, he's so original--so refreshing and that sort of thing--so surprising. Just as in this case, he thinks of so many devilishly ingenious, out-of-the-way sort of things! It was Jenkins' idea that I find out what was in the box by just _opening_ the dashed thing while he looked for the letter. Clever that, eh? Well, rather! So I unsheathed my little pocket manicure knife, cut the strings and removed the wrapper. Inside was just a little, straw-covered box with a telescope cover and inside the box, wrapped in tissue, was a tight roll of bright red silk. That was all--not another thing but this little silk roll. It was a wad as thick as three fingers and perhaps twice as long, tied with a bit of common string, ending in a loose bowknot. I gripped my glass a bit tighter in my eye and took a long shot at the thing. But dashed if I could make anything out of it at all. You see, the string went around it at least three or four times. Such a devilish secretive way to fix a thing, don't you think? A queer, sweet, spicy sort of odor swept past me that reminded me of the atmosphere at Santine's and places in the Metropolitan Art Museum. I sat down, the better to think it over, turning the little roll in my hand and trying to think of all the things it might be.