ndered if he would ever
regret his refusal.

"Ching Tong must have time to make arrangements, and I have a dinner
engagement at the Astor House with Anthony and the heavenly twins.
Can't you and I have tea to-morrow afternoon?"

Romola came to him and put her two hands on his shoulders. "No," she
said. "We must not be seen together. It may mean danger for you.
I've been thinking over your plan to convert Anthony into an
adventurer. Why not bring them all here. I have seven servants, all
Chinese, and they would give their lives for me. Let me see----" She
bit her upper lip thoughtfully.

"You can tell them that this place is--well, the heart of the Chinese
smuggling trade. It's ridiculous, but it will appeal to them. I will
dress up as a Chinese woman--oh, I've done it dozens of times in the
past--and I shall be very mysterious. That will seem much more
romantic to Peggy than a mere opium den. And it will be safer. I know
Ching Tong's shop. It might do, if you were an ordinary person, Peter,
but such an adventure should be provided with at least five times as
many exits! I have them here."

Peter looked at her doubtingly, although the idea appealed to him.
Outriding his admiration of the idea, however, was a recurrence of his
old impression of Romola Borria. He knew that he never had been a
match for her cunning, her esoteric knowledge of China.

"I have plenty of make-up pots. I'll paint up these _fokies_ to look
like bandits! I'll have knives in their belts. And I'll plan the
rehearsal before you come. Everything will be arranged." She seemed
to hesitate. "You--you won't bring that dreadful automatic revolver of
yours loaded--will you?"

Peter smiled faintly.

CHAPTER IV

A light spring rain was drizzling down when Peter ordered four
rickshaws of the proud Sikh who stood guard over the porte cochere of
the Astor House. Long bright knives of light slithered across the wet
pavement from the sharp arc lights on the Soochow bridge. The ghostly
superstructure of a large and silent junk was thrown in silhouette
against the yellow glow of a watchman's shanty across the dark canal,
as it moved slowly in the current toward the Yellow Sea.

It was a desolate night. The streets were deserted except for an
occasional rickshaw with some mysterious bundled passenger, the
footfalls of the coolies sounding with a faint squashing as of drenched
sandals, slimy with the heavy sludge of the back-v