A number of the blue-turbaned military police stood sentry-go here and there about the yard, each with fixed bayonet. Within the room that was at once ticket office and telegraph station sat the Chinese agent cheerfully contemplating a slack day.
Doane wrote out his messages, and stood over the man until they were sent; then walked slowly back toward the inn. His task, really, was done. He would wait until night, of course; there might be replies. But at most his only further service would be in carrying hopeful messages to the beleaguered folk at Ting Yang. Beyond that he would be but one more human unit to fight and to be fed. Debit and credit, they seemed just about to balance, those two items. Fastening his door he stretched out on the kang.
He was awakened at the close of day by the innkeeper bringing food. The man set out two plates on the dusty old table. Doane sat on the edge of the kang and drowsily wondered why. He had slept heavily. He stood up; moved about the room; he was only a little stiff. Indeed his strength was surely returning. He felt almost his old self, physically.
There was a knock at the door. In Chinese he called, “Enter!”
The door slowly opened, and a drab little man came in, walking with a slight limp, and stood looking at him out of dusty blue eyes. He carried a packet of papers.
“Grigg!” he exclaimed softly.
“Henry Withery!” cried Doane, “What on earth are you doing here?”
Withery smiled, and laid hat and packet on the table.
“I've arranged to dine with you,” he explained. “You won't mind?”
“Of course not, Henry. But why are you here?”