e, but that he would drop around for a conference bright and early
the next morning. He added that he intended to take the _King of Asia_
back to China.

When he entered the chief operator's cubicle, the chief operator looked
into the face of a man who had aged, a white, sad face, the face of a
man who had found the sample of life he had tasted to be a bitter
mouthful.

"Back again, as I live!" he chirruped, pumping Peter's hand
exuberantly. "Where now, Peter?"

"China," said Peter; "my old love, the _King of Asia_, sails to-morrow.
Can I have her?"

"Sure thing! By the way, here's a special delivery letter for you in
the mail that hasn't been assorted--a nice square envelope. Looks to
me like a wedding invitation!"

Peter examined the square, white envelope.

A wedding invitation with a San Friole canceling stamp.

Absently he dropped it into his pocket.

Making his way to the St. Francis he found that San Toy Fong had
departed for parts unknown. So he sat down at a desk in the
writing-room, and penned a brief note, addressing it in care of Ah Sih
King. He knew that the letter would reach San Toy Fong as rapidly as a
grape-vine telegraph could deliver it to him. He knew that it would be
opened, coded and transmitted to the second coil of the vast, hidden
government, wherever he might be--from Singapore to Singapore.

The import of that note was simply that he, Peter Moore, was returning
to China, and promised to interfere in no way with the band's
activities. If he should change his mind, he added, he would file
notice of such decision with the duly accredited agents of Len Yang's
monarch at the Jen Kee Road place, in Shanghai.

The purple shoulders of the Golden Gate were sinking into the
silver-tipped waves when Peter, having despatched his clearance
message, left the tireless cabin for a look at the glorious red sunset
and a breath of the fresh Pacific air.

A room steward, who had just ascended the iron ladder, approached,
touching his cap with a deferential forefinger. "A letter addressed to
you, sir. Found it in the corridor outside your stateroom. Must have
fallen from your pocket."

The wedding invitation with a San Friole date-mark!

With nerveless fingers Peter drew out, not an envelope, but a stiff
card. And he stared at the card in the red twilight, and groaned in
pain and astonishment.

Have I said that this was St. Valentine's Day? In the color of the
dying sun, and painted