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comber’s eager hand. “Remember—you must be careful. If the police find that you’ve suddenly got money, they’re bound to look into it.”

“I was thinking of some new clothes,” returned Smith wistfully.

“Not now,” Fyfe warned. “Before you sail, yes—we'll attend to that. But now—just as you are for a while—and lie low.” The actor was standing too, and he stared hard into the other’s face. “I’m depending on you. A man who can paint as you can—don’t be a fool. Go straight.”

“By heaven, I will!” Smith cried, and hurried off across the park. For a moment Fyfe looked after him, then, with his recent purchase under his arm, walked slowly in the direction of the theater.

Smith went on to Beretania Street, and entered a small low-ceilinged room through a doorway that bore above it the faint sign: “Nippon Hotel.” Behind the narrow desk stood a polite little Japanese. On the wall at his back hung the picture of a great liner cleaving the waves, under the words: “Nippon Yusen Kaisha.”

“Hello, Nada,” Smith said jauntily. “My old room vacant?”

“So sorry,” hissed the Jap.

Smith threw a bill on to the counter. “Here’s ten in advance,” he remarked.

“So sorry you stay away such long time,” hastily amended the clerk. “Room all ready—yes-s.”

“I’ll go and brush up a bit,” Smith told him. “My baggage will be along later.”

“You have money from home, I think,” Nada smiled.

“Money from home, nothing,” Smith responded