He arose cautiously from the keg of nails. It might he well to
return to the boatshed, even at the risk of falling into the Inlet.
But he had not proceeded very far before, suddenly, as he had hoped
it would, the mist began to lift. Swiftly, before the puff of a
warmer breeze, it eddied and thinned. Its soundless, impalpable
pressure lessened. The wharf, the sea, the city began to steal back,
sly, expressionless, pretending that they had been there all the
time. Even Mr. Johnston could be clearly seen coming down from the
boatshed with a curious figure beside him--a figure so odd and
unfamiliar that he might have been part of the unfamiliar fog
itself.

"Well, you've certainly struck it lucky today," called the genial
Mr. Johnston. "This here is Doc. Farr's boy. He's going right back
over there now and he'll take you along--if you want to go."

There was a disturbing cadence of doubt in the latter part of his
speech which affected the professor's always alert curiosity, as did
also the appearance of the "boy" reputed to belong to Dr. Farr. How
old he was no one could have guessed. The yellow parchment of his
face was ageless; ageless also the inscrutable, blank eyes. Only one
thing was certain--he had never been young. For the rest, he was
utterly composed and indifferent, and unmistakably Chinese.

"I hope there is no mistake," said Professor Spence hesitatingly.
"Dr. Farr certainly informed me that this was the wharf at which his
launch usually--er--tied up. But--there could scarcely be two
doctors of that name, I suppose? It's somewhat uncommon."

"Oh, it's him you want," assured Mr. Johnston. "Only man of that