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 him, suggested that his dearest secret was an open one, and yet made him uncommonly happy. At least, while he read the note again, he could harbor no ill-will.

A puff of the cool afternoon breeze sent the forgotten papers flying into the river—all except three bits which fluttered to Scarlett's side of the table. He stopped them mechanically. One was a gharri chit, in marvellous English, from Nawab Shah's livery stable. The second was a chit from Sin Cheong, "Goldsmith or Curio," across which was written in a crabbed, boyish hand, "It is in the middle one. They are following you." "Sounds like melodrama," Owen reflected, idly. The third was a paste-board ticket bearing tiny Japanese characters, a telephone address, the name "Ko-Katu," and a street number notorious throughout the Orient.

"He's a savoury person for a guide," thought