on the
whole Pacific Ocean; you've had that reputation now--how long--five
years? But it is aimless! Where are you drifting? What will become
of you as the years pass? You must be nearly thirty now, Peter. I? I
am younger, but I have suffered more. The only happiness I have known
has been with you."

Peggy's voice became petulant. "Peter, is that cork _awfully_
obstinate?"

"In a minute," he said absently.

"Do you remember those wonderful days and evenings we spent together on
the Java Sea, on the old _Persian Gulf_? Do you remember those
evenings, Peter, under the moon and the Southern Cross?"

"I remember a great deal of treachery!"

"But there is to be no more treachery," she said passionately. "Think,
Peter, think! You are penniless--I have only a little money; it will
not last long. What follows? Do you know what happens to white women
when they are stranded, penniless, friendless, in this country?" She
shivered. "And it would be such a simple thing to do---to go with
me--to him. We would be together forever then--you and I! Tibet! The
Punjab! The merchant's trail into Bengal! You and I with our
caravan--in the blue foot-hills!"

"I'm sorry," confessed Peter sadly.

Romola hung her head with a bitter sigh.

Peggy pitched her voice: "Smash the neck, Peter; I don't mind a little
broken glass!"

Romola was pushing two silver cups along the floor to him.

He spilled an amount of the sparkling golden liquid on the carpet,
where it formed a dark, round stain. With slightly unsteady hands he
conveyed the cups across the room, and Peggy, without another word,
following a rather vexed: "Thank you, m'lord," emptied the cup in a
single swallow. She licked her lips daintily, and her eyes were
sparkling.

As Peter moved into the seat beside her, he saw the curtain over the
doorway slowly drawn back by an unseen hand. He looked smilingly
toward Romola, and her eyes were fixed on the moving curtain, her face
rigid in surprise and concern. The thing seemed to puzzle her.

White metal flashed coldly. A lean hand and arm appeared, and a short,
fat knife, the haft sparkling with drops that resembled blood, was
projected into the room, point down, quivering, in the wood, not five
feet from Romola's lacquered bench!

CHAPTER V

"Is this a part----" began Peter.

"No, it is not."

Romola's face seemed thin with her growing anxiety. Obviously the
tossed knife was not a part of the e