other world beyond the Saskatchewan, if romance was really quite dead in him.  Always he had laughed at romance.  Work—­the grim reality of action, of brain fighting brain, of cleverness pitted against other men’s cleverness—­had almost brought him to the point of regarding romance in life as a peculiar illusion of fools—­and women.  But he was fair in his concessions, and to-night he acknowledged that he had enjoyed the romance of what he had seen and heard.  And most of all, his blood had been stirred by the beautiful face that had looked at him from out of the night.

The tuneless thrumming of a piano sounded behind him.  As he passed through the low door of the restaurant a man and woman lurched past him and in their irresolute faces and leering stare he read the verification of his suspicions of the place.  Through a second door he entered a large room filled with tables and chairs, and pregnant with strange odors.  At one of the farther tables sat a long-queued Chinaman with his head bowed in his arms.  Behind a counter stood a second, as motionless as an obelisk in the half gloom of the dimly illuminated room, his evil face challenging Howland as he entered.  The sound of a piano came from above and with a bold and friendly nod the young engineer mounted a pair of stairs.

“Tough joint,” he muttered, falling into his old habit of communing with himself.  “Hope they make good tea.”

At the sound of his footsteps on the stair the playing of the piano ceased.  He was surprised at what greeted him above.  In startling contrast to the loathsome environment below he entered a luxuriously appointed room, heavily hung with oriental tapestries, and with half a dozen onyx tables partially concealed behind screens and gorgeously embroidered silk curtains.  At one of these he seated himself and signaled for service with the tiny bell near his hand.  In response there appeared a young Chinaman with close-cropped hair and attired in evening dress.

“A pot of tea,” ordered Howland; and under his breath he added, “Pretty deuced good for a wilderness town!  I wonder—­”

He looked about him curiously.  Although it was only eleven o’clock the place appeared to be empty.  Yet Howland was reasonably assured that it was not empty.  He was conscious of sensing in a vague sort of way the presence of others somewhere near him.  He was sure that there was a faint, acrid odor lurking above that of burned incense, and he shrugged his shoulders with conviction when he paid a dollar for his pot of tea.

“Opium, as sure as your name is Jack Howland,” he said, when the waiter was gone.  “I wonder again—­how many pots of tea do they sell in a night?”

He sipped his own leisurely, listening with all the eagerness of the new sense of freedom which had taken possession of him.  The Chinaman had scarcely disappeared when he heard footsteps on the stair.  In another instant a low word of surprise almost leaped from his lips.  Hesitating for a moment in the doorway, her face staring straight into his own, was the girl whom he had seen through the hotel window!