It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. The Yale spirit! Ah Cum smiled whimsically. "He just asked for his coat, which he wanted under his pillow. At that, the girl jumped up. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. Why don't you try to find out how the every-day Chinese lives, how he treats his family, what his normal habits are, his hopes, his ambitions? Why don't you come to China as I went to America—with an open mind?" "You're on," said O'Higgins, briskly. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights.
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