"Curious thing. From his papers he seems to have

been the servant of a man called Ingles--a retired Civil Servant. Ah, you know him, do you?" he added

quickly, as I started at the name.

Ingles' servant! Then I had seen him before. Not that

I had ever succeeded in being able to distinguish one

Chinaman from another. He must have been with Ingles

on his way to China, and after the catastrophe he had

returned to England with a message, possibly, for me. It was vital, imperative that I should hear that message.

"Is he conscious?" I asked. "Can he speak? Mr. Ingles was an old friend of mine, and I think it possible

that this poor fellow has brought me a message from

him. Mr. Ingles is believed to have gone overboard

about ten days ago."

"He's just conscious, but I doubt if he has the force to speak. He lost a terrible lot of blood, you know. I can administer a stimulant, of course, but we've already

done all that is possible in that direction."

Nevertheless, he administered a hypodermic injection,

and I stayed by the bed, hoping against hope for a

word--a sign--that might be of the utmost value to me

in my work. But the minutes sped on and no sign came.

And suddenly a baleful idea shot across my mind.

Was I not already falling into the trap? Suppose that

this Chinaman had merely assumed the part of Ingles'

servant, that he was in reality an agent of the Big Four?

Had I not once read that certain Chinese priests were

capable of simulating death? Or, to go further still, Li Chang Yen might command a little band of fanatics

who would welcome death itself if it came at the command of their master. I must be on my guard.

Even as these thoughts flashed across my mind, the

man in the bed stirred. His eyes opened. He murmured

something incoherently. Then I saw his glance fasten

upon me. He made no sign of recognition, but I was at

once aware that he was trying to speak to me. Be he

friend or foe, I must hear what he had to say.

I leaned over the bed, but the broken sounds conveyed

no sort of meaning to me. I thought I caught the

word "hand," but in what connection it was used I could not tell. Then it came again, and this time I heard another word, the word "Largo." I stared in amazement, as the possible juxtaposition of the two suggested

itself to me.

"Handel's Largo?" I queried.

The Chinaman's eyelids flickered rapidly, as though

in assent, and he added another Italian word, the word "carrozza." Two or three more words of murmured

Italian came to my ears, and then he fell back abruptly. The doctor pushed me aside. It was all over. The man

was dead.

I went out into the air again thoroughly bewildered.

"Handel's Largo," and a "carrozza." If I remembered rightly, a carrozza was a carriage. What possible