portrait admirably executed in pen and ink. The face was
that of a young man, a very beautiful face, but one of
infinite sadness. I had long been aware, although I know
not how, that Ah-Yen had met with a great sorrow, and
had in some way connected the fact with this portrait.
I had always refrained, however, from asking him about
it, and it was not until the evening in question that I
knew its history.

We had been smoking in silence for some time when Ah-Yen
spoke. My friend is a man of culture and wide reading,
and his English is consequently perfect in its construction;
his speech is, of course, marked by the lingering liquid
accent of his country which I will not attempt to
reproduce.

"I see," he said, "that you have been examining the
portrait of my unhappy friend, Fifty-Six. I have never
yet told you of my bereavement, but as to-night is the
anniversary of his death, I would fain speak of him for
a while."

Ah-Yen paused; I lighted my pipe afresh, and nodded to
him to show that I was listening.

"I do not know," he went on, "at what precise time
Fifty-Six came into my life. I could indeed find it out
by examining my books, but I have never troubled to do
so. Naturally I took no more interest in him at first
than in any other of my customers--less, perhaps, since