s, "but think you had a letter with a
Chinese postmark last week."

He looked around at my little writing-desk and coughed slightly behind
his hand.

"Was just a-wondering, sir, if it might not be among those you haven't
opened--there are several piles. If I might look, sir--"

I nodded. Fact is, I allow Jenkins much privilege, owing to long
service. Then, you know--oh, dash it, he's so original--so refreshing
and that sort of thing--so surprising. Just as in this case, he thinks
of so many devilishly ingenious, out-of-the-way sort of things!

It was Jenkins' idea that I find out what was in the box by just
_opening_ the dashed thing while he looked for the letter.

Clever that, eh? Well, rather!

So I unsheathed my little pocket manicure knife, cut the strings and
removed the wrapper. Inside was just a little, straw-covered box with a
telescope cover and inside the box, wrapped in tissue, was a tight roll
of bright red silk.

That was all--not another thing but this little silk roll. It was a wad
as thick as three fingers and perhaps twice as long, tied with a bit of
common string, ending in a loose bowknot.

I gripped my glass a bit tighter in my eye and took a long shot at the
thing. But dashed if I could make anything out of it at all. You see,
the string went around it at least three or four times. Such a devilish
secretive way to fix a thing, don't you think?

A queer, sweet, spicy sort of odor swept past me that reminded me of the
atmosphere at Santine's and places in the Metropolitan Art Museum. I sat
down, the better to think it over, turning the little roll in my hand
and trying to think of all the things it might be.

"Looks like it might be a red silk muffler, Jenkins," I exclaimed in
disgust. By Jove, I was never so devilish disappointed in my
life--never--I'm sure of it! If I had been a girl I should have
cried--dash it, I know I should.

I pinched the roll gloomily.

"If it's a red silk muffler, Jenkins, catch me wearing it, that's all!"
I burst out indignantly. "Rotten bad form, if you ask _me_. I'd look
like an out-and-out bounder!"

Then I had a horrible thought:

"Or--or the Salvation Army, dash it!"

Here Jenkins thrust a letter at me. "Perhaps this may explain it, sir,"
he suggested.

Sure enough, it was from Hong Kong, and from that chap, Mastermann. Out
there on special mission for his government, he said. I don't know what
it was--never did know, in fact, for I skipped down t