surprised them until they saw his smiling face as he drove up in his car.
It gave them a thrill of hope as in chorus they cried:

"Well--Uncle John?"

"I think he will live," returned the little man, with an air of great
satisfaction. "Anyway, he's alive and breathing now, and the doctors say
there's every reason to expect a rapid recovery."

"Who is he?" they asked, crowding around him.

"A. Jones."

"A--what?" This from Patsy, in a doubtful tone.

"Jones. A. Jones."

"Why, he must have given you an assumed name!"

"He didn't give us any name. As soon as he recovered consciousness he
fell asleep, and I left him slumbering as peacefully as a baby. But we
went through his clothes, hoping to get a trace of his friends, so they
could be notified. His bathing suit is his own, not rented, and the name
'A. Jones' is embroidered on tape and sewn to each piece. Also the key to
bathhouse number twenty-six was tied to his wrist. The superintendent
sent a man for his clothing and we examined that, too. The letters 'A.J.'
were stamped in gold on his pocketbook, and in his cardcase were a number
of cards engraved: 'A. Jones, Sangoa.' But there were no letters, or any
other papers."