Mark Burrage he liked, found out about him through the secret channels of
information that make Chinatown one of the finest detective bureaus in
the land, and set the seal of his approval on the young man's visits. He
would no more have shown him into the reception room and gone to see if
"Miss Lolly and Miss Clist" were receiving, than he would have permitted
them to change the dinner hour.

"You bin away, Mist Bullage," he said, placing the card the young man
gave him on the hall table--cards were only presented in the case of
strangers.

"How did you know that?" Mark asked, surprised.

Fong's face suggested intense, almost childish amusement.

"I dunno--I hear some place--I forget."

"I've been up in Sacramento County with my people--maybe Crowder
told you."

"Maybe--I not good memly, I get heap old man." He made a move for the
parlor door, his face wrinkled with his innocent grin. "Miss Lolly and
Miss Clist here; awful glad see you," and he threw the door open.

Mark took a deep breath and strode forward, pulling his cuffs over his
hands, which at that moment seemed to him to emerge from his sleeves
large and unlovely as two hams. The place always abashed him, its sober
air of wealth, its effortless refinement, its dainty feminine atmosphere.
No brutal male presence--one never thought of Chinese servants as
men--seemed ever to have disturbed with a recurring, habitual foot its