ward. And here he
was again, Francisco Stanley.

It was difficult to realize that fifteen years had flown. Jeanne seemed
so little older. But the tall young son was startling evidence of Time's
passage. Stanley used to sit gazing at him silently during those first
few days, as though trying to drink in the stupendous fact of his
existence. Old friends called to hear his adventures; he was given a
dinner at the club where he learned, with some surprise, that he was not
unfamous as an author. Jeanne had finished his book and found a
publisher. Between the advertisement of his mysterious disappearance and
its real merits, the volume had a vogue.

Robert had married Maizie after her mother's death. They lived in the
Windham house in Old South Park, for Benito and Alice had never returned
from the East. Po Lun and Hang Far had gone to China.

Slowly life resumed its formed status for Francisco.

CHAPTER LXXIV

THE "REFORMER"

Francisco loved to wander round the town, explore its nooks and corners
and make himself, for the time being, a part of his surroundings. A
smattering of European languages aided him in this. He rubbed elbows
with coatless workmen in French, Swiss, Spanish and Italian "pensions,"
sitting at long tables and breaking black bread into red wine. He drank
black coffee and ate cloying sweetmeats in Greek or Turkish cafes;
hobnobbed with Sicilian fishermen, helping them to dry their nets and
sometimes accompanying them in their feluccas into rough seas beyond the
Heads. Now and then he invaded Chinatown and ate in their underground
restaurants, disdaining the "chop suey" and sweets invariably served to
tourists for the more palatable and engaging viands he had learned to
like and name in Shanghai and Canton. Fortunately, he could afford to
indulge his bent, for the value of his inheritance had increased
extraordinarily in the past decade. Stanley's income was more than
sufficient to insure a life of leisure.

* * * * *

At Market and Fourth streets stood a large and rather nondescript gray
structure built by Flood, the Comstock millionaire. It had served for
varied purposes, but now it housed the Palais Royal, an immense saloon
and gambling rendezvous. In the massive, barn-like room, tile-floored
and picture-ornamented, were close to a hundred tables where men of all
descriptions drank, played cards and talked. Farther to the rear were
private compartments, from whi