more than a couple of hours elapse, when one of the parties named walks in upon me."
"If they knew about the baby," Mark was saying weakly, "they must have heard from Alan; but if they heard from him, they'd know where he was—and I don't know where he is, and—"
"I don't know where I am," the official cried. "Man alive, tell us the story and give me leave to untie my senses."
Alan sat in an outer room of the yamen. Ping-Pong lay asleep on the floor, the treasure-box was just in sight in the next room, and a burly native policeman leaned against the doorpost. They were holding "one boy, one baby"—and one box, they might have added—till further instructions came from Shanghai. The magistrate had "investigated" to the full extent of his own and his assistant's English; he failed to understand the telegram from Mr. Tyler—as well he might—and he was waiting for enlightenment. What became of the prisoners during this more or less uncertain period mattered little to him. They might have squatted in the courtyard of the yamen for a week, and
