To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. “Never mind. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.
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