young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips?  Why was she bothering about him at all?  Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance?  Sidney Carton.  Was that it?  Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour?  Or was it because he was so alone?  She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.

Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside.  More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his.

She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead.  A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state.  So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound.

At length the manager arrived; and together he and Ruth succeeded in getting some of the aromatic spirits of ammonia down the patient’s throat.  But nothing followed to indicate that the liquid had stimulated the heart.

“You see?” Ruth said.

The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault.  Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest:  confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape.  It would send business elsewhere; and the hotel business in Canton was never so prosperous that one could afford to lose a single guest.  Clientele was of the most transitory character.

And then, there would be the question of money.  Would there be enough in the young man’s envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—­and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home?  So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey.  Good riddance to bad rubbish.

An hour later the doctor arrived; and after a thorough examination, he looked doubtful.

“He is dying?” whispered Ruth.

“Well, without immediate care he would have passed out.  He’s on the ragged edge.  It depends upon what he was before he began this racket.  Drink, and no sustaining food.  But while there’s life there’s hope.  There isn’t a nurse this side of Hong-Kong to be had.  I’ve only a Chinaman who is studying under me; but he’s a good sport and will help us out during the crisis.  This chap’s recovery all depends upon the care he receives.”

Out of nowhere Ruth heard her voice saying:  “I will see to that.”

“Your husband?”

“No.  I do not even know his name.”

The doctor sent her a sharp, quizzical glance.  He could not quite make her out; a new type.

“Taber,” said the manager; “Taber is the name.”

For some reason she did not then understand, Ruth did not offer the information that Taber had another name.