A half-caste clerk to whom he had entrusted his card returned from the inner office. “Mr. Tudsley will see you, sir.” Martin followed him into a darkened office, cooled by an electric fan, where a white-clad, gaunt, yellow-faced Englishman sat at a desk. The clerk closed the door and retired. The yellow-faced Englishman rose and smiled, after glancing at Martin’s card on the desk before him. “Mr. Overshaw? What can I do for you?” “You can give me some work,” said Martin. “I’m afraid I can’t.” “I’m sorry,” said Martin. “I must apologise for troubling you.” He was about to withdraw. Mr. Tudsley glanced at him shrewdly. “Wait a minute. Sit down. I don’t seem to place you. Who are you and where do you come from?” “That’s my name,” said Martin, pointing to his card, “and I have just arrived from Europe, or to be more exact, from Egypt.” “By the _Sesostris?_” “Yes.” Mr. Tudsley took up and scanned a type-written sheet of paper. “I don’t see your name on the passenger list.” “Possibly not,” said Martin. “I came steerage.” “Indeed?” Martin, spruce in his well-cut grey flannels, looked anything but a deck passenger. “What made you do that?” “Economy,” said Martin. “And why have you come to me?” “I made a list last night, at the hotel, of the leading firms in Hong-Kong and yours was among them.” “Haven’t you any introductions?” “No.” “Then what induced you to come to this particular little Hell upon Earth?” “Chance,” said Martin. “One place is pretty much the same to me as another.” “What kind of work are you looking for?” “Anything. From sweeping the floor to running a business.” “Only coolies sweep floors here,” said Mr. Tudsley, tilting back his chair and clasping his hands behind his back. “And only experienced men of business run businesses. What business have you run?” “None,” said Martin. “Well, what business qualifications have you?” “None. But I’m an educated man—Cambridge——” “Yes, yes, one sees that,” the other interrupted. “There are millions of them.” “I’m bilingual, English and French, and my German is good enough for ordinary purposes.” “Do you know anything of accounts?” “No,” said Martin. “Can you add up figures correctly?” “I daresay,” said Martin. “Have you ever tried?” “No,” said Martin. Mr. Tudsley handed him a mass of type-written papers pinned together. “Do you know what that is?” Martin glanced through the document. “It seems to be a list of commodities.” “It’s a Bill of Lading. First time you’ve ever seen one?” “Yes,” said Martin. “Have you any capital?” “A little. A few hundred pounds.” “Then stick to it like grim death. Don’t part with it here.” “I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so,” said Martin. The lean, yellow-faced man brought his chair back to normal perpendicularity and swung it round—it worked on a swivel.