“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely.

“But there’s nothing more to see in Canton.”

“Perhaps I’m too tired to plan for to-morrow.  Those awful chairs!”

After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself.  She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly.

Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness.  One of the coolies held the paper lantern.  Near by stood Ah Cum and the young unknown, the former protesting gently, the latter insistent upon his demands.

“I repeat,” said Ah Cum, “that the venture is not propitious.  Canton is all China at night.  If we were set upon I could not defend you.  But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you.”

“No.  I want to make my own selection.”

“Very well, sir.  But if you have considerable money, you had better leave it in the office safe.  You can pay me when we return.  The sing-song girls in Hong-Kong are far handsomer.  That is a part of the show in Hong-Kong.  But here it is China.”

“If you will not take me, I’ll find some guide who will.”

“I will take you.  I simply warn you.”

Spurlock entered the office, passed Ruth without observing her (or if he did observe her, failed to recognize her), and deposited his funds with the manager.

“I advise you against this trip, Mr. Taber,” said the manager.  “Affairs are not normal in Canton at present.  Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police.  Look at these walls.”

The walls were covered with racks of loaded rifles.  In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared.  Some Chinaman might take it into his head to shout:  “Death to the foreign devils!” And out of that wall yonder would boil battle and murder and sudden death.  A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe.

Taber.  Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies.  That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock.  She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern.  Then she went into the office.

“What is a sing-song girl?” she asked.

The manager twisted his moustache.  “The same as a Japanese geisha girl.”

“And what is a geisha girl?”

Not to have heard of the geisha!  It was as if she had asked:  “What is Paris?” What manner of tourist was this who had heard neither of the geisha of Japan nor of the sing-song girl of China?  Before he could marshal the necessary phrases to explain, Ruth herself indicated her thought.

“A bad girl?” She put the question as she would have put any question—­level-eyed and level-toned.