“Hanada,” Johnny corrected.

“He has told you?”

“Yes, he is an old friend.”

“And mine too.  Good!  To-night we will go.  We will get that man.  Three of us.  That bad one!”

“All right,” said Johnny.  “See you at the depot to-night.”

“Wait,” said the girl.  Her hand still on his arm, she stood on her tiptoe and whispered in his ear: 

“My name Cio-Cio-San; your friend, Hanada friend.  Good-by.”  Then she was gone.

Johnny walked to his hotel as in a dream.  He had hoped to return to his den, his job and to Mazie in Chicago, and in a quiet way, all mysteries dissolved, to live his old happy life.  But here were all the mysteries carrying him right to his own city and promising to end—­in what?  Perhaps in some tremendous sensation.  Who could tell?  And the diamonds; what of them?  He put his hand to his inner pocket; they were still there.  Was he watched?  Would he be followed?  Even as he asked himself the question, he fancied that a dark form moved stealthily across the street.

“Well, anyway,” he said to himself, “I can’t desert my Jap friends.  Besides, I don’t want to.”

* * * * *

“Chicago,” said Hanada some time later, as Johnny related his conversation with Cio-Cio-San.  “That means the end is near.”

The end was not so near as he thought.  When it came it was not, alas! to be for him the kind of end he fancied.

“All right,” he said.  “To-night we go to Chicago.”

On the trip eastward from Seattle, Johnny slept much and talked little.  The Jap girl and Hanada occupied compartments in different cars and appeared to wish to avoid being seen together or with Johnny.  This, he concluded, was because there might be Russian Radicals on this very train.  Johnny slept with the diamonds pressed against his chest and it was with a distinct sense of relief that he at last heard the hollow roar of the train as it passed over the street subways, for he knew this meant he was back in dear old Chicago, where he might have bitter enemies, but where also were many warm friends.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MYSTERY OF THE CHICAGO RIVER

Johnny Thompson dodged around a corner on West Ohio street, then walked hurriedly down Wells street.  At a corner of the building which shadowed the river from the north he paused and listened; then with a quick wrench, he tore a door open, closed it hastily and silently, and was up the dusty stairs like a flash.  At the top he waited and listened, then turning, made his way up two other flights, walked down a dark corridor, turned a key in a lock, threw the door open, closed it after him, scratched a match, lighted a gas lamp, then uttered a low “Whew!” at the dust that had accumulated everywhere.

Brushing off a chair, he sat down.  For a few moments he sat there in silent reflection.  Then rising, he extinguished the light, threw up the sash, unhooked some outer iron shutters, sent them jangling against the brick wall, and drawing his chair to the window, stared reflectively down into the sullen, murky waters of the river.  At last he was back in Chicago!