She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. “I can’t believe it. "They tell me over here that the average Chinaman is honest. Down in my part of the world it's all a man has to go by. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked.
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