“The gentleman who is waiting in the next room,” said the suave Oriental, “until I have gone. His Excellency Ho-tao, which in our language means the River Mandarin, or as you would call him, Captain Talham, he would know me. I am the son of the Governor of T’si-lu: to all intents and purposes, I am the governor.” Tillizinni bowed. He knew something of this man, who was educated at Oxford, rented the most expensive of Piccadilly flats, and was reputedly wealthy. Soo rose to go. “I am afraid I have allowed my curiosity and my natural interest in the fate of my countryman to trespass upon your time,” he said. “Here is my address: if I can be of any assistance to you, please command me.” He put his card upon the table, and with a little bow, withdrew. Three minutes later he was speeding eastward as fast as his car could go. He swept round from the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, and crossed the river. He alighted near the Borough. “Wait for me!” he said briefly, and the muffled chauffeur answered in Cantonese. In a tiny thoroughfare leading off Southwark Street were a number of small shops, shuttered and silent at this hour of the morning. Soo tapped on the shutters of one. It was a gentle tattoo that he beat, yet the door which flanked the windows was instantly opened and he passed in. The shop was evidently a laundry, and a Chinese laundry at that. He passed swiftly across the shop through the living-room at the back, in which one feeble light burned, and without hesitation turned sharply and descended the stairs which led directly from the living-room to the cellars below. At the bottom of the stairs was a door. Again he knocked, and again the door was opened by a Chinaman in his shirt-sleeves. The man removed his pipe as Soo entered, and made a profound obeisance. The cellar was a large one, and its walls were covered with blood-red paper on which were painted crude, black drawings and characters illustrating the “Song of Lament.” There was one table above which an oil-lamp swung, and about were seated half a dozen men in various conditions of dishabille. Despite the coldness of the night, the cellar was uncomfortably hot, for a big charcoal brazier glowed in a wall recess where in some forgotten age had stood a European stove. The men rose as Soo entered, concealing their hands in their sleeves. “Where is my brother?” asked Soo quickly. He addressed a cadaverous old Chinaman who stood nearest the brazier. “Lord,” said the man, “your illustrious brother has not returned.” “Where are Yung-ti and Hop-lee?” demanded Soo. “Lord, they have not returned,” answered the other. Soo looked at his watch. “Ming-ya says----” began the old man, but stopped as if he thought better of it. “Ming-ya says--what?” asked Soo. “Answer me, old fool, quickly!” The old man bowed. “The seven blessings of heaven upon your highness,” he said humbly. “But Ming-ya says that neither Yung-ti nor Hop-lee will return.”