His ear was caught by the sound of a petulant squealing. Across the street was a Chinese, writhing against the iron door of a well-lighted building. For all the distance, Yee Wing could see that his face was ghastly. With a twist of the body, the Powder-man struggled up. Here, to his hand, was a key with which he could unlock the way! He hurried over and, as the squirming, loose-jointed figure lurched violently to one side, righted it firmly. Then, supporting the stranger, directed their course from that thoroughfare to another. Presently, the pair entered a shop. It was one of the manufacturing variety, being filled with sewing-machines before which--though the night was far advanced--sat their busy operators, at work upon loose, lacey garments of silk and muslin. Yee Wing and his charge passed through this outer room and into a small, darkened one behind. After a short stay, they came forth again, the Powder-man leading. An incredible change had come over the strange Chinese. His eyes were wide and lustrous, he stepped alertly. The two, going single file, after the manner of the Oriental, left the shop and walked rapidly to a near-by square. There, in the shadow of the shaft of the Golden Ship, they sat down, side by side. “This is my desire,” began Yee Wing, “--you shall find for me a certain woman.” And here, with the indifference, apparently, of a dealer in flesh, he described Yee Chu. “You cannot mistake her,” he declared. “When your work is finished, leave word for me with the garment-maker that the wooden candle-stick is mended. Meanwhile, he will serve your needs.” Three days, and the message of the mended candle-stick was left. That night, in the shadow of the monument, the opium fiend disclosed to Yee Wing the prison place of his wife. The Powder-man took his hands from his wide sleeves. Then, on swift foot, he made off to the great, stone _yamen_ of the police. “Plenty piecee bad man hab got my wife,” he told the head man. “Chinks?” asked the “foreign devil.” “Yessee.” “Then w’y doan yez jerk out their pigtails?” the other demanded,--but not unkindly, for the thin face and the strained eyes made him conscious of something like pity. Yee Wing told his story, in the best pidgin-English he could command. That same night, a gong-wagon came rattling its way into Chinatown. The Sam Sings who lounged at corners here and there watched its progress with unconcern. The wagon was an hourly visitor, since here, hutched with the careless Oriental, and out of the sight of the clean, was the city’s scum--criminal and unfortunate together. But all of a sudden there was the sound of sandalled feet on the run, for the out-post men were scattering to cover. The patrol had turned into a certain squalid alley, had stopped before a certain door, above which--black Chinese characters on a scarlet ground--was pasted the legend: