"He's had a big shock, Sir Thomas, but he's all right now. I've rubbed him all over with oil, fed him up with beef-tea and brandy and found him dry clothes."
"He's from the towers, of course?"
As I said this, I saw Bill Rolston's face, beneath its yellow dye, was blazing with excitement.
"Sir Thomas," he said in a whisper, "this is Pu-Yi himself, Mr. Morse's Chinese secretary, a man utterly different from the others we have seen here yet. He's of the Mandarin class, the buttons on his robe are of red coral. In this house, at this moment, we have one of the masters of the Secret City."
I gave a long, low whistle, which—I remember it so well—exactly coincided with the raucous shout of the Honest Fool—"Time, gentlemen, please!"
A thought struck me.
"The other Chinese in the large and small rooms, do they know this man is here?"
"No, Sir Thomas; I am more than glad to say I got him up to your own room when both doors were closed."
"What's he doing now?"
"He's having a little sleep. I promised to call him in an hour or so, when he wishes to pay you his respects."