She put a new dose of eau de Cologne on her forehead, and leaned on one
elbow. On the mantelpiece lay the tissue parcel containing the slim
silver belt, the price of Li's death. She wanted to stick it in the
fire. And only the fact that it would not burn prevented her savagely
doing so. There was something wrong, too, with the occultism. To
receive a paltry sovereign for murdering the greatest statesman of the
Eastern hemisphere was simply grotesque. Moreover, she had most
distinctly not wanted to deprive China of a distinguished man. She had
expressly stipulated for an inferior and insignificant mandarin, one
that could be spared and that was unknown to Reuter. She supposed she
ought to have looked up China at the Wedgwood Institution and selected
a definite mandarin with a definite place of residence. But could she
be expected to go about a murder deliberately like that?

With regard to the gross inadequacy of the fiscal return for her deed,
perhaps that was her own fault. She had not wished for more. Her brain
had been so occupied by the belt that she had wished only for the belt.
But, perhaps, on the other hand, vast wealth was to come. Perhaps
something might occur that very night. That would be better. Yet would
it be better? However rich she might become, Stephen would coolly take
charge of her riches, and dole them out to her, and make rules for her
concerning them. And besides, Charlie would suspect her guilt. Charlie
understood her, and perused her thoughts far better than Stephen did.
She would never be able to conceal the truth from Charlie. The
conversation, the death of Li within two hours, and then a sudden
fortune accruing to her--Charlie would inevitably put two and two
together and divine her shameful secret.

The outlook was thoroughly black anyway.

She then fell asleep.

When she awoke, some considerable time afterwards, Stephen was calling
to her. It was his voice, indeed, that had aroused her. The room was
dark.

'I say, Vera,' he demanded, in a low, slightly inimical tone, 'have you
taken a sovereign out of the empty drawer in your toilet-table?'

'No,' she said quickly, without thinking.

'Ah!' he observed reflectively, 'I knew I was right.' He paused, and
added, coldly, 'If you aren't better you ought to go to bed.'

Then he left her, shutting the door with a noise that showed a certain
lack of sympathy with her headache.

She sprang up. Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that