“I have no information from my boys.”
“Seven years ago”—thus Mr. Boatwright, huskily, “they killed all but a few of us. Now the trouble has started again—a similar trouble They attacked our station up at So T'ung yesterday. Mr. Doane is on his way there now. He left this noon. That is why they referred your case to me. Oh. yes, I should have told you—the tao-tai, Chang Chili Ting, has asked me to get from you an explanation of your appearance here without a passport. But perhaps your card explains. You come simply as a journalist?”
Brachey bowed.
“You have no connection w ith the Ho Shan Company?”
“None”
“Chang is taking up your case this evening with the provincial judge, Pao Ting Chuan. Pao is to give you an audience to-morrow, I believe, at noon. I will act as your interpreter.” Mr. Boatwright paused, and sighed. “I am very busy.”
“I regret this intrusion on your time,” said Brachey. It was impossible for him to be more than barely courteous to such a man as this.
“Oh, that's all right,” Boatwright replied vaguely. “The audience will probably be at noon. Then you will come back here with me for tiffin.” He sighed again; then went on. “They shot one of Pourmont's white men. Through the lungs.... You must have seen Pourmont at Ping Yang, as you came through.”
“I called on him.”
“Didn't he tell you?”