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looking. Not a very intelligent Chinese, Tarneverro thought, wondering vaguely what this visit presaged.

The Oriental placed one hand on his broad chest, and achieved a grand bow despite his waist-line.

“A thousand pardons,” he remarked. “Have I the undisputable honor to address Tarneverro the Great?”

“I am Tarneverro,” answered the other bruskly. “What can I do for you?”

“Permit that I introduce myself,” continued the Chinese, “unworthy of your notice though I am. The name is Harry Wing, and I am humble business man of this island. Do I extend my remarks too far when I say I wish to see you alone?”

Tarneverro shrugged. “What for?”

“The matter is of pressing urgency. If I might suggest—your room———”

The fortune-teller gazed for a moment into that placid mask of a face, behind which life seemed nonexistent. He capitulated. “Come along,” he said. Obtaining his key at the desk, he led the way.

Once inside the door of number nineteen, he turned to confront his odd visitor, who had followed on noiseless feet. The curtains of the sitting-room were drawn back as far as they would go, and the place was flooded with light. With his customary forethought, Tarneverro had selected an apartment on the mountain side of the hotel, and a restless cool wind from the Koolau Range swept in at the window and stirred the papers lying on a desk.

The countenance of the Chinese was still without expression, even under the piercing scrutiny the fortune-teller now gave it.