“By George!” he exclaimed.  “Manuscripts!  Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be.  And will you look!  His name neatly cut out from each title page.  This is clear over my head.”

“A novelist?” cried Ruth, thrilling.  And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion.  That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe:  it vaguely suggested something of a trap.

“Or trying to be,” answered the doctor.  “Evidently he could not destroy these children of his.  No doubt they’ve all been rejected; but he couldn’t throw them overboard.  I suspect he has a bit of vanity.  I’ll tell you what.  I’ll leave these out, and to-morrow you can read them through.  Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.  To-morrow I’ll wire Cook’s and the American Express in Hong-Kong to see if there is any mail.  Taber is the name.  What is he—­English or American?”

“American.  What is a Yale man?”

“Did he say he was a Yale man?”

“He and Ah Cum were talking....”

“I see.  Ah Cum is a Yale man and so is this Taber.”

“But what is it?”

“An American university.  Now, I’ll be getting along.  Give him his medicine every half hour.  Keep his arms down.  I’ll have my man Wu over here as soon as I can get in touch with him.  We’ll get this chap on his feet if only to learn what the trouble is.”

Downstairs he sought the hotel manager.

“Can you pull him through?” was the anxious question.

“Hope to.  The next few hours will tell.  But it’s an odd case.  His name is Taber?”

“Howard Taber.”

“Confidentially, I’m assured that he has another.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—­not a single clew to his real identity.  And stony broke.”

“Not quite,” replied the manager.  “He left an envelope with some money in it.  Perhaps I’d better open it now.”  The envelope contained exactly five hundred dollars.  “How long will he be laid up?”

“Three or four weeks, if he doesn’t peg out during the night.”

The manager began some computations.  “There won’t be much left for you,” he said.

“That’s usual.  There never is much left for me.  But I’m not worrying about that.  The thing is to get the patient on his feet.  He may have resources of which we know nothing,” the doctor added optimistically.

“But, I say, that girl is a queer one.”

“I shouldn’t call her queer.  She’s fine.  She’ll be mighty interesting to watch.”

“For an old bachelor?”

“A human old bachelor.  Has she any funds?”

“She must have.  She’s headed for America.  Of course, I don’t believe she’s what you would call flush.  But I’ll take care of her bill, if worst comes to worst.  Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral.  I’ll remember that.  But “fine” is the word.  How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her?  People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they’ll start to snubbing her.  You understand what I mean.  I don’t want her hurt.  But we’ve got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her.”