le, so—very slowly, for two minutes.”

Taking out his watch, he proceeded to time himself while the tiny handle went round and round noiselessly.

“This little Chinaman is a fake,” the boy thought to himself once more. “He must be. How could anyone make a picture of your thoughts?”

And yet—he found himself trying to think what that would mean. If you were able to photograph the thoughts of your mother on the night before Christmas, or your teacher when you thought she had caught you in some prank, or the person who sits next to you in a street car, or the new girl next door, or a person suspected of some terrible crime. Johnny’s head fairly whirled with the possibilities of the thing. In the end he thought, “Huh! It can’t be done!”

Beginning to feel that he had dwelt upon this long enough, he switched his thoughts to the Chinese Chamber of Commerce. Johnny could visit that fascinating place any time he pleased because he was a friend of the great Wung Lu, who spent much time there.

At times Johnny had lived near great forests. These he had explored with interest. He had followed mysterious rivers and searched hidden places in wild mountain ranges. Here he explored Chinatown.

And such a fascinating place this Chinatown was—especially the Chamber of Commerce to which, from all over the world, rich Chinamen came that they might trade silk and tea, quaint Chinese toys, teak wood boxes and a thousand other articles of trade, for wheat and typewriters, teaspoons and automobiles.

There were strange and fascinating things in the great hall of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce—a lamp made of three thousand pieces of porcelain, banners old as the hills from which they came, and brass dragons that seemed much older.

Johnny was deep in his contemplation of these thi