the villages which bordered the
merchants' trail, from the Yangtze to the Irriwaddi, but Peter's
interest was kindled. As he made off in the direction of the most
reliable village mule-seller, he decided that the secretive young
bridegroom, Meng, might be worth cultivating.

From a soft-tongued and hardened swindler Peter procured a mule, and
arranged to have the animal in the caravansary at daybreak. It was his
intention to start for Kialang in search of Eileen with the first
tender glow of dawn.

After dining he waited in the compound for a glimpse of the mysterious
Meng, or his ravishing bride, Naradia. Unsuccessful, he returned to
his room. His Chinese valet was brewing jasmin-tea when Peter opened
and shut the bedroom door. His pajamas were neatly laid out upon his
couch, and the rugs were neatly furled back. He detected the acrid and
pleasing odor of incense as he crossed the room.

The boy glanced up meekly from the charcoal brazier. "Wanchee tea now?"

"Yes." Peter slipped out of his tunic.

The boy dropped on his knees to unlace Peter's boots.

Peter lighted a cigarette, stretched himself out upon the rugs, and the
boy brought him a steaming cup.

"Wake me--daylight--sure," cautioned Peter, lifting the cup.

"_Tsao_," murmured the boy.

When the boy was gone Peter removed the automatic from his raincoat
pocket. The metal glittered pleasantly in the yellow light from the
suspended lamp. The cup of tea had served to waken him. He released
the cartridge clip from the automatic's handle and stared thoughtfully
at the glowing lead balls.

He became conscious of a sound, alien and untimely. The door was
rattling softly. He studied it with interest; the wooden handle was
turning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

The phenomenon puzzled him. His eyes were sparkling a little as he
quietly restored the clip of cartridges.

Creeping to the hinged side of the door, he waited, breathing silently.

With a squeak the door swung in quickly. A lean, yellow hand, gripping
a nickel-plated pistol, was thrust inside.

Peter shot three times directly through the wood panel.

The white pistol thudded to the planks, while the yellow hand seemed to
be jerked backward by an electric force. Soft footsteps retreated.
Peter jerked open the door and stepped out.

The corridor was empty. Some few feet toward the stairway an oiled
wick, jutting from a tiny bronze cup which was bracketed to a
s