to be satisfied with the life of those yellow men. He would have to be a terrible failure, or he would have to be hounded by a terrible fear, to live out his life so far away from his own kind. And he felt now that Binhart could never do it, that a life sentence there would be worse than a life sentence to "stir." So he took another cigar, lighted it, and sat back watching the faces about him.
For no apparent reason, and at no decipherable sign, one of the yellow faces across the smoke-filled room detached itself from its fellows. This face showed no curiosity, no haste. Blake watched it as it calmly approached him. He watched until he felt a finger against his arm.
"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the detective's ear.
"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired.
"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again touched the detective's arm. "Clismas!"
Blake rose, at once. He recognized the
