The theatre was crowded with Orientals, who, for the most part, were dirty, vile-smelling and expectorating.
About half-way down the centre of the aisle, he took a vacant seat on the end of one of the rough, wooden, backless benches which were all that were provided for the comfort of the audience. The place was very badly lighted, although the stage stood out in well-illuminated contrast.
Phil’s first anxiety was to locate Jim. He scanned the packed benches, but all he could see was stolid, gaunt-jawed, slit-eyed Chinamen. There did not seem to be another white man in the place.
Someone nudged him on the arm. He turned. A sleek Chinaman, whom Phil had often seen on the streets––the janitor, Phil remembered, for The Pioneer Traders,––grinned at him.
“You tly catch Missee Langfod?” he whispered.
“Yes!” nodded Phil.
“He down there, flont seat.”
Phil looked in the direction indicated and, sure enough, there was Jim––alone, in the middle of the foremost and only otherwise unoccupied bench in the hall––all absorbed in the scene that was being enacted on the platform.
Contented in the knowledge that he now had his friend under surveillance, Phil directed his interest to the stage, for he had never before been present at so strange a performance.