Tell me now how it feels when _you_ are in
the heavenly condition."

"Most hopeless, Peter; because death, you see, is so close upon the
heels of my love."

"Meaning--me?"

"No--my heart. The death of love and the death--of life follow my
love. Now I want to pick up the threads of a moment ago. Peter, don't
hold my hand. That woman is--staring. You said--you said, you would
come away around the world to see me, to help me, possibly, if I were
in trouble. You weren't serious."

"Cross my heart!"

"On the _Persian Gulf_ that day--that day I told you something of your
recent adventures and your apparently miraculous escapes, I intended to
ask you----"

"Seeress, I am all ears----"

"I intended asking you a favor, a most important one, an
alternative----"

"The trip to Nara?"

"Yes; an alternative to that. Tell me truly how much at heart you hate
the man at Len Yang. Wait. Don't answer me yet. At heart, do you
really hate him, as you pretend, or are you simply bowing down to your
vanity, to the pride you seem to take in these quixotic deeds? For one
thing, there is very little money in what you are doing. If you should
approach these adventures a little differently, perhaps, you might put
yourself in a position to be rewarded for the troubles you take, the
dangers you risk. I mean that."

"I admit I'm not a money hater," frowned Peter, striving without much
success to feel her trend.

"It would be so easy for you to make all the money you need in only a
few years by--how shall I say it?--by 'being nice.' Wait! I have not
finished. You said I was a special emissary from him. You hit the
mark more squarely than you thought. Oh, I admit it! I was sent to
Batavia to meet you, to intercept you, and, to be quite frank, to ask
you your terms."

"From _him_?"

"Yes. He has observed you. He can use you, and oh!--how badly he
wants you and your boldness and that unconquerable fire of yours! He
needs you! He wants you, more than any man he has known! And he will
pay you! Name your price! A half million gold a year? Bah! It is a
drop to him!"

"Don't," begged Peter in a whisper. "Please--don't--go on."

His face had become almost as white as the tablecloth, and his lips
were trembling, ashen.

"God! I put my confidence in you, time after time, and each time you
show me treachery, deeper, more hideous, than before. Please don't
continue. I'm trying, as hard as I know how, to appr