gan rushing over him. His fingers fumbled coldly at the flaps; he even plunged his hands wildly into all his pockets. Then, pushing his hair off his wet forehead, he said blankly:
"It's gone! The paper—he original one—the important one—is gone!"
Mr. Tyler looked very grave.
"My boy, that's extremely serious. "Without the two signatures, I'm afraid your journey is in vain. Are you sure?"
But Mark was thinking, and thinking hard. He crashed his fist down on the polished table, and the porcelain ink-well leaped.
"Chun Lon!" he cried.
Grasping the table, he poured out an explanation which became clearer to himself at every word, as corroborative incidents came back to him. How the Chinaman had often sidled past him and Alan as they stood talking earnestly, off watch, of their plans; how he had sometimes come across the man scuttling through the bulkhead door near his stateroom. He now remembered clearly the conversation after the storm, when Chun Lon had thrust the offer of cups of tea and his services as compradore upon the boys.
