"Constance—or, rather, Mrs. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-Kong Hotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at this hour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama, and the trail lost for ever. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. . He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere.
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