THE HAND OF THE MANDARIN QUONG
I
THE SHADOW ON THE CURTAIN
“Singapore is by no means herself again,” declared Jennings, looking about the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe. “Don't you agree, Knox?”
Burton fixed his lazy stare upon the speaker.
“Don't blame poor old Singapore,” he said. “There is no spot in this battered world that I have succeeded in discovering which is not changed for the worse.”
Dr. Matheson flicked ash from his cigar and smiled in that peculiarly happy manner which characterizes a certain American type and which lent a boyish charm to his personality.
“You are a pair of pessimists,” he pronounced. “For some reason best known to themselves Jennings and Knox have decided upon a Busman's Holiday. Very well. Why grumble?”
“You are quite right, Doctor,” Jennings admitted. “When I was on service here in the Straits Settlements I declared heaven knows how often that the country would never see me again once I was demobbed. Yet here you see I am; Burton belongs here; but here's Knox, and we are all as fed up as we can be!”