aling across the vestibule, he approached Miss Vost's door, and
rapped.

Peter ran his fingers along the edge of the table until they
encountered the hilt of a cutlass. He waited.

The Mongolian rapped a little louder. There was no answer. Again he
knocked, imperatively. Peter heard Miss Vost's sleepy voice pitched in
inquiry. Her door opened an inch or two.

The Mongolian forced his way inside!

Miss Vost uttered a short, sharp scream, which was instantly smothered.

As Peter burst into the room, the Mongolian turned with a snarl,
reaching for his silk blouse. Peter clapped his free hand to the
muscled shoulder, and dragged him into the corridor.

Miss Vost, in a long, white nightgown, was framed in the doorway,
staring sleepily. Her hand was clutched to her lips. Her hair tumbled
about her bare shoulders in dark, silky clusters.

Bright steel flashed in the Mongolian's hand. "_Ha-li!_" he muttered.

Peter braced himself, and thrust straight upward, striking with fury.
He drove the sword through the Mongolian's right eye.

Miss Vost, a slender pillar of white, stared down at the floundering
heap. She seemed to be going mad, with the green light of the electric
glittering in her distended eyes.

Bobbie MacLaurin bounded down the steps.

"He tried to come into my room," said Miss-Vost. "He tried to come
into my room!"

"I know. I know. But it's all right," soothed Peter, panting. "You
must go back to bed. You must try to sleep." He talked as though she
were a child. "He was a bad man. He had to--to be treated--this way!"

"You--you look like an Arab. The dark. And that beard. Where is
Bobbie?"

"Right here. Right here beside you!"

"You're not hurt--either of you? You're both all right?"

"Yes. Yes. _Please_ go to bed!" begged Peter.

"Please!" implored Bobbie.

To them there was something unreligious, something terrible, in the
notion of Miss Vost standing in the presence of the grim black heap in
the shadow. Nor were her youth and her innocence intended to be bared
before the eyes of men in this fashion.

As if a chill river wind had struck her, she shivered--closed the door.

The men carried the limp body, which was unaccountably heavy, to the
deck. After a minute there--was a splash. The _Hankow_ had not been
checked. On the Yangtze formal burial ceremonies are seldom performed.

Peter went to bed at once. He tried to sleep. He counted the
revolutions of the pr