and months of madness until
the girl's eyes seemed to catch fire, and when at last he came to the
little cabin in which Conniston had died, he was again John Keith. He
could not have talked about himself as he did about the Englishman. And
when he came to the point where he buried Conniston under the floor, a
dry, broken sob broke in upon him from across the table. But there were
no tears in the girl's eyes. Tears, perhaps, would have hidden from him
the desolation he saw there. But she did not give in. Her white throat
twitched. She tried to draw her breath steadily. And then she said:

"And that--was John Keith!"

He bowed his head in confirmation of the lie, and, thinking of
Conniston, he said:

"He was the finest gentleman I ever knew. And I am sorry he is dead."

"And I, too, am sorry."

She was reaching a hand across the table to him, slowly, hesitatingly.
He stared at her.

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I am sorry."

He took her hand. For a moment her fingers tightened about his own.
Then they relaxed and drew gently away from him. In that moment he saw
a sudden change come into her face. She was looking beyond him, over
his right shoulder. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated under his
gaze, and she held her breath. With the swift caution of the man-hunted
he turned. The room was empty behind him. There was nothing but a
window at his back. The rain was drizzling against it, and he noticed
that the curtain was not drawn, as they were drawn at the other
windows. Even as he looked, the girl went to it and pulled down the
shade. He knew that she had seen something, something that had startled
her for a moment, but he did not question her. Instead, as if he had
noticed nothing, he asked if he might light a cigar.

"I see someone smokes," he excused himself, nodding at the cigarette
butts.

He was watching her closely and would have recalled the words in the
next breath. He had caught her. Her brother was out of town. And there
was a distinctly unAmerican perfume in the smoke that someone had left
in the room. He saw the bit of red creeping up her throat into her
cheeks, and his conscience shamed him. It was difficult for him not to
believe McDowell now. Shan Tung had been there. It was Shan Tung who
had left the hall as he entered. Probably it was Shan Tung whose face
she had seen at the window.

What she said amazed him. "Yes, it is a shocking habit of mine, Mr.
Conniston. I learned to smoke in the East. I