Then he changed back the clock.

“We've got you, you blarsted heathen!” cried Mooney hoarsely as he and two others from the Central Office threw themselves upon Mock Hen on the landing outside the door of his flat. “Look out, Murtha. Pipe that thing under his arm!”

“It's a bloody turtle!” gasped Murtha, shuddering

“What's the matter, boys?” inquired Mock. “Leggo my arm, can't yer? What'd yer want, anyway?”

“We want you, you yellow skunk!” retorted Mooney. “Open that door! Lively now!”

“Sure!” answered Mock amiably. “Come on in! What's bitin' yer?”

He unlocked the door and threw it open.

“Take a chair,” he invited them. “Have a cigar? You there, Emma?”

Emma Pratt, clad in a wrapper and lying on the big double brass bedstead in the rear room, raised herself on one elbow.

“Yep!” she called through the passage. “Got the bird?”

Mock looked at Murtha, who was carrying the terrapin.

“Sure!” he called back. “Sit down, boys. What'd yer want? Can't yer tell a feller?”

“We want you for croaking Quong Lee!” snapped Mooney. “Where have you been?”

“ Fulton Market-and Hudson House. I left here quarter of four. I haven't seen Quong Lee. Where was he killed?”

Mooney laughed sardonically.

“That'll do for you, Mock! Your alibi ain't worth a damn this time. I saw you myself.”

“You saw someone else,” Mock assured him politely. “I haven't been in Chinatown.”

“Say, what yer doin' wit' my Chink?” demanded Emma, appearing in the doorway. “He was sittin' here wit' me all the afternoon, until about just before four I sent him over to Fulton Market to buy a bird. Who's been croaked, eh?”

“Aw, cut it out, Emma!” replied Mooney. “That old stuff won't go here. Your Chink's goin' to the chair. Murtha, look through the place while we put Mock in the wagon. Hell!” he added under his breath. “Won't this make Peckham sick!”

Mr. Ephraim Tutt just finished his morning mail when he was informed that Mr. Wong Get desired an interview. Though the old lawyer did not formally represent the Hip Leong Tong he was frequently retained by its individual members, who held him in high esteem, for they had always found him loyal to their interests and as much a stickler for honor as themselves. Moreover, between him and Wong Get there existed a curious sympathy as if in some previous state of existence Wong Get might have been Mr. Tutt, and Mr. Tutt Wong Get. Perhaps, however, it was merely because both were rather weary, sad and worldly wise.

Wong Get did not come alone. He was accompanied by two other Hip Leongs, the three forming the law committee appointed to retain the best available counsel to defend Mock Hen. In his expansive frock coat and bowler hat Wong might easily have excited mirth had it not been for the extreme dignity of his demeanor. They were there, he stated, to request Mr. Tutt to protect the interests of Mock Hen, and they were prepared to pay a cash retainer and sign a written contract binding themselves to a balance-so much if Mock should be convicted; so much if acquitted; so much if he should die in the course of the trial without having been either convicted or acquitted. It was, said Wong Get gently, a matter of grave importance and they would be glad to give Mr. Tutt time to think it over and decide upon his terms. Suppose, then, that they should return at noon? With this understanding, accordingly, they departed.

“There's no point in skinning a Chink just because he is a Chink,” said the junior Tutt when his partner had explained the situation to him. “But it isn't the highest-class practise and they ought to pay well.”

“What do you call well?” inquired Mr. Tutt.

“Oh, a thousand dollars down, a couple more if he's convicted, and five altogether if he's acquitted.”

“Do you think they can raise that amount of money?”

“I think so,” answered Tutt. “It might be a good deal for an individual Chink to cough up on his own account, but this is a cooeperative affair. Mock Hen didn't kill Quong Lee to get anything out of it for himself, but to save the face of his society.”

“He didn't kill him at all!” declared Mr. Tutt, hardly moving a muscle of his face.

“Well, you know what I mean!” said Tutt.

“He wasn't there,” insisted Mr. Tutt. “He was way over in Fulton Market buying a terrapin.”

“That is what, if I were district attorney, I should call a Mock Hen with a mockturtle defense!” grunted Tutt.

Mr. Tutt chuckled.

“I shall have to get that off myself at the beginning of the case, or it might convict him,” he remarked. “But he wasn't there-unless the jury find that he was.”

“In which case he will-or shall-have been there-whatever the verb is,” agreed Tutt. “Anyhow they'll tax every laundry and chop-suey palace from the Bronx to the Battery to pay us.”

“I'd hate to take our fee in bird's-nest soup, shark's fin, bamboo-shoots salad and ya ko main,” mused Mr. Tutt.

“Or in ivory chopsticks, oolong tea, imitation jade, litchi nuts and preserved leeches!” groaned Tutt. “Be sure and get the thousand down; it may be all the cash we'll ever see!”

Promptly at twelve the law committee of the Hip Leong Tong returned to the office of Tutt &Tutt. With them came a venerable Chinaman in native costume, his wrinkled face as inscrutable as that of a snapping turtle. The others took chairs, but this high dignitary preferred to sit upon his heels on the floor, creating something of the impression of an ancient slant-eyed Buddha.

Wong Get translated for his benefit the arrangement proposed by Mr. Tutt, after which there was a long pause while His Eminence remained immovable, without even the flicker of an eyelid. Then he delivered himself in an interminable series of gargles and gurgles, supplemented by a few cough-like hisses, while Wong Get translated with rapid dexterity, running verbally in and out among his words like a carriage dog between the wheels of a vehicle.

It was, declared Buddha, an affair of great moment touching upon and appertaining to the private honor of the Duck, the Wong, the Fong, the Long, the Sui and various other families, both in America and China. The life of one of their members was at stake. Their face required that the proceedings should be as dignified as possible. The price named by Mr. Tutt was quite inadequate.

Mr. Tutt, repressing a smile, passed a box of stogies. What amount, he inquired through Wong Get, would satisfy the face of the Duck family? A somewhat lengthy discussion ensued. Then Buddha rendered his decision.

The honor of the Ducks, Longs and Fongs would not be satisfied unless Mr. Tutt received five thousand dollars down, five more if Mock Hen was convicted, three more if he died before the conclusion of the trial, and twenty thousand if he was acquitted.

Mr. Tutt, assuming an equal impassivity, pondered upon the matter for about an inch of stogy and then informed the committee that the terms were eminently satisfactory. Buddha thereupon removed from the folds of his tunic a gigantic roll of soiled bills of all denominations and carefully counting out five thousand dollars placed it upon the table.

“H'm!” remarked Tutt when he learned of the proceeding. “His face is our fortune!”

“Look here,” expostulated District Attorney Peckham in his office to Mr. Tutt a month later. “What's the use of our both wasting a couple of weeks trying a Chinaman who is bound to be convicted? Your time's too valuable for that sort of thing, and so is mine. We've got three white witnesses that saw him do it, and a couple of dozen Chinks besides. He doesn't stand a chance; but just because he is a Chink, and to get the case out of the way, I'll let you plead him to murder in the second degree. What do you say?”