Well throttled down, we crept past Nanking Bund, giving it a wide berth, then headed straight in for a creek Philipson had chosen as being secluded enough for our business. Here we halted in midstream while the pair of us changed into European clothes, and gently paddled the launch inshore. You couldn't have hit on a better place for a furtive landing. There was a queer old inn, big, rambling, well tucked away, with its garden running down to the willow-shrouded bank, and water enough in the creek to allow of our putting the launch right in, so that we could step from the cambered roof of her cabin on to the grey lichened garden wall. We gave out to the native proprietress that we were merchants down stream from Hankow on a vacation, and engaged a bedroom each--Ah Sing would sleep on board--and a sitting room in the wing of the building overlooking the water; and there, after we had fed, Philipson pushed a box of cigarettes towards me and sat back in his chair with a strangely serious air. 'I owe you an apology, Mirlees,' he began. 'What on earth for?' 'I am afraid I have misled you.' He sprang up, glided to the door as noiselessly as a cat, and flung it open. I had heard nothing myself, but I now caught a glimpse of the lady of the house withdrawing, feather dust-whisk in hand, to the far end of the landing. 'Note one,' muttered Philipson, closing the door and resuming his seat. 'That woman needs watching. But, as I was saying, I fear I have not been altogether frank. I led you to suppose that I was coming here to escape the consequences of our little brawl last night. That was only partly true. This Nanking journey is only the first stage of a much longer one I am making--so long that the distance would probably surprise you.' 'H'm. _How_ long?' 'Only time can measure the exact length,' said Saunders Philipson, 'but I should estimate it at nearer three thousand miles than two.' CHAPTER III ENTER STEPHEN POYNING The match I had struck to light my cigarette remained burning in my fingers till it scorched them. I was waiting for Philipson to amplify that last disclosure, but he appeared to be thinking of something else; he had thrown back his head and was listening intently. 'Not a word now,' he whispered. There was a knock on the door, and the innkeeper entered, laid four bottles and two glasses on the table between us, and withdrew with that queer bent-kneed bounce which natives use for a bow. 'Fortunately,' said Philipson, 'this inn has been patronised by foreigners in the past, for whom the woman keeps a cellar. When we arrived it was almost my first concern to explore it and take stock. This is not a vintage claret, I am afraid, but it was the best quality I could find.' 'You've made up for it in quantity, anyway,' I put in.