eaven" instead of "God,"
and he felt that Ling had very accurately sized up Mr. Thornton Lyne's
lack of spiritual qualities.

He finished the tea, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Ling," he said, "this place is very dull and sad. I do not think I shall
live here."

"Will the master go back to Shanghai?" asked the other, without any
display of emotion.

"I think so," nodded Tarling. "At any rate, this place is too dull. Just
miserable little taking-money-easily cases, and wife-husband-lover cases
and my soul is sick."

"These are small matters," said Ling philosophically. "But The
Master"--this time he spoke of the great Master, Confucius--"has said
that all greatness comes from small things, and perhaps some small-piece
man will cut off the head of some big-piece man, and then they will call
you to find the murderer."

Tarling laughed.

"You're an optimist, Ling," he said. "No, I don't think they'll call me
in for a murder. They don't call in private detectives in this country."

Ling shook his head.

"But the master must find murderers, or he will no longer be Lieh Jen,
the Hunter of Men."

"You're a bloodthirsty soul, Ling," said Tarling, this time in English,
which Ling imperfectly understood, despite the sustained efforts of
eminent missionary schools. "Now I'll go out," he said with sudden
resolution. "I am going to call upon the small-piece woman whom
White-Face desires."

"May I come with you?" asked Ling.

Tarling hesitated.

"Yes, you may come," he said, "but you must trail me."

Carrymore Mansions is a great block of buildings sandwiched between two
more aristocratic and more expensive blocks of flats in the Edgware Road.
The ground floor is given up to lock-up shops which perhaps cheapened the
building, but still it was a sufficiently exclusive habitation for the
rents, as Tarling guessed, to be a little too high for a shop assistant,
unless she were living with her family. The explanation, as he was to
discover, lay in the fact that there were some very undesirable basement
flats which were let at a lower rental.

He found himself standing outside the polished mahogany door of one of
these, wondering exactly what excuse he was going to give to the girl for
making a call so late at night. And that she needed some explanation was
clear from the frank suspicion which showed in her face when she opened
the door to him.

"Yes, I am Miss Rider," she said.

"Can I see you for a