carcely to have closed my eyes, when Nayland Smith was
shaking me into wakefulness.

"You are probably tired out," he said; "but your crazy expedition of
last night entitles you to no sympathy. Read this. There is a train in
an hour. We will reserve a compartment and you can resume your
interrupted slumbers in a corner seat."

As I struggled upright in bed, rubbing my eyes sleepily, Smith handed
me the _Daily Telegraph_, pointing to the following paragraph upon the
literary page:

"Messrs. M---- announce that they will publish shortly the
long-delayed work of Kegan Van Roon, the celebrated American
traveller, Orientalist and psychic investigator, dealing with his
recent inquiries in China. It will be remembered that Mr. Van Roon
undertook to motor from Canton to Siberia last winter, but met with
unforeseen difficulties in the province of Ho-Nan. He fell into the
hands of a body of fanatics and was fortunate to escape with his life.
His book will deal in particular with his experiences in Ho-Nan, and
some sensational revelations regarding the awakening of that most
mysterious race, the Chinese, are promised. For reasons of his own he
has decided to remain in England until the completion of his book
(which will be published simultaneously in New York and London), and
has leased Cragmire Tower, Somersetshire, in which romantic and
historical residence he will collate his notes and prepare for the
world a work ear-marked as a classic even before it is published."

I glanced up from the paper, to find Smith's eyes fixed upon me
inquiringly.

"From what I have been able to learn," he said evenly, "we should
reach Saul, with decent luck, just before dusk."

As he turned and quitted the room without another word, I realized, in
a flash, the purport of our mission; I understood my friend's ominous
calm, betokening suppressed excitement.

Fortune was with us (or so it seemed); and whereas we had not hoped to
gain Saul before sunset, as a matter of fact the autumn afternoon was
in its most glorious phase as we left the little village with its
old-time hostelry behind us and set out in an easterly direction, with
the Bristol Channel far away on our left and a gently sloping upland
on our right.

The crooked high-street practically constituted the entire hamlet of
Saul, and the inn, The Wagoners, was the last house in the street.
Now, as we followed the ribbon of moor-path to the top of the rise, we
could stand and look b