The gipsies stole out, after them the five well-dressed young men. Next the officers saluted the desk and passed Agatha with pitying glances. Only the reporter remained. “Say,” said the lieutenant to him, “Oi’ve give y’ manny a scoop, ain’t Oi?” “Yes,” said the reporter, “you have.” “Wull, thin. An’ d’ye know yere missin’ th’ story of yer loife this siccond?” “For heaven’s sake! What is it?” The lieutenant leaned toward him, dropping his voice dramatically. “Hist!” he exclaimed. “They’s a man dead in Brooklyn!” He gave a prodigious wink. “Oh, I see. All right,” said the reporter. He waved a hand and went out. Then Mr. McVicar began to speak again--to Agatha, and so quaveringly that the lieutenant knew the tears were close there, too. The lieutenant turned his back and fell to studying a map. “I’ve been a coward and a cad,” said that quavering voice, “and you’ll never forgive me. But, honestly, I did it all because I--I wanted to be with you. So I pretended I was--was--uncle that morning that I telephoned. Every day I thought the truth would come out. And lots of times I came near skipping town. The fellows wouldn’t let me alone a minute--from the time I had to tell one of ’em (_you_ remember) that I was deaf and dumb. The fiends! Oh, _don’t_ cry so! I’d--I’d die if it’d do any good.” Agatha raised her tear-wet face. “I’m not c-r-crying because I’m angry,” she sobbed, putting out her two hands to him. “I’m c-c-crying because you’re not d-- and d--.” His strong arms caught her up then and held her close, and for all the silent, pent-up hours he had spent with her there now gushed forth a thousand whispered words of rapturous endearment. And he kissed her poor, trembling lips, her chin, her black-lashed eyelids--even the fluff of her hair. “Dearest,” he whispered, “I loved you the second I spied you from behind that reference table.” Agatha suddenly stopped her sobbing. Then she leaned away from him--and looked down. The plaid she saw above his half-shoes was red and brown at right angles upon a French-knotted ground of blue. It was not exactly the plaid that had been displayed that other day, but it was a full cousin to it. The sun broke through the clouds then, for as she looked up once more a smile lit all that scarlet rounding of her cheeks where her dimples were. “Then, d-dear,” she began, both gloved hands creeping up to rest on his shoulders, “wh-what is your tr-truly name?” A YELLOW MAN AND A WHITE Fong Wu sat on the porch of his little square-fronted house, chanting into the twilight. Across his padded blouse of purple lay his _sam-yen_ banjo. And as, from time to time, his hymn to the Three Pure Ones was prolonged in high, fine quavers, like the uneven, squeaky notes of a woman’s voice, he ran his left hand up the slender neck of the instrument, rested a long nail of his right on its taut, snake’s-skin head, and lightly touched the strings; then, in quick, thin tones, they followed the song to Sang-Ching.