"I can't stand sitting around," Mark said at last. "I'm going out to walk in that park place. It's beastly hot."
"I'm going to write to Jane," Alan said.
Mark leaned across the table.
"If you tell her a word of this," he whispered, "I'll—I'll throttle you, Alan."
"Just what do you take me for?" Alan said quickly, with a sudden blaze in his eyes.
"Beg your pardon, old man." Mark sighed, getting up. "It's all such rough luck. Good-by."
Alan went slowly to their room and Mark strode away. Dusk was just beginning to settle over the river. On the Bund lights appeared. The little paper lanterns of rickshaws bobbed and flitted everywhere. Mark turned and walked aimlessly toward the Soochow bridge.
There was a padding of feet behind him, and a tolerably neat Chinese in a faded blue coat and linen trousers appeared at his side.
"Me come velly click hotel-side," this person announced. "Melican man no go Shanghai all alone night-time. No see Shanghai here; here all Melican Blitish man. No see Shanghai till
