"You see Chinee-man in temple—velly intlesting," whispered the guide.
Mark knew now that it was no use to struggle. He knew, also, what an insane thing he had done in following the man at all. But there, on the quiet American bund, it had seemed so safe and all like a make-believe place. He was wide awake now, and, in the midst of his anxiety, very hopeful, for he felt sure he knew the reason for his seizure and that he would find Chun Lon before the Sikhs did.
Dimly through smoke-hung gloom Mark could see a number of ugly gods faintly illumined by the smoldering fire of incense-sticks and the waning flicker of a few guttering red wax candles. But he was pushed and pulled without delay into a stifling room where a group of Chinese sat crouched around a lard-oil lamp all smoking violently with much rapping of pipes and crooning speech. They looked around as Mark was pushed to the doorway between the guide and another man. Facing him, with his hands outspread over a paper, Mark saw Chun Lon, who smiled slowly and quite cor-
