upon her just once before you die! Perhaps I may be
so lenient as to allow you to die together. Does not that appeal to
you?" he demanded, as if anxious. "You--who are so thirsty for the
gold of romance?"

Peter glared at him silently, and his fingers were twitching.

His host tapped the resonant gong. Some one stepped behind Peter, for
he distinctly heard the seep of silken garments.

The man on the green throne muttered, adding to Peter: "I am granting
your wish. You may gaze upon her before you die. I, too, will gaze,
for I prize her highly, as you know."

He sank back meditatively, and in that moment the gray face became
oddly sane.

"Peter Moore, seldom do I permit men who have troubled me so sorely to
escape alive. Perhaps, in face of what has happened, you are foolishly
taking unto yourself credit. And still, for a reason unknown to me, I
hesitate.

"Listen to me closely, youth! For these two years I have watched you
with my thousands of hired eyes--you cannot realize how closely!
Because I was deeply interested. You are a riddle to me. You have the
emotions of a woman, and the cunning of a _hu-li_.

"Times without count word has gone forth from this green room that your
death must take place. Childish curiosity to stare just once upon the
foolish adventurer has caused that word to be revoked! Do not assume
credit for bravery that was not yours, Peter Moore! You are not
heroic; you have been a plaything. The gods are through with you.

"Harken to me, Peter the foolish. Within these green walls daily are
inscribed the names of men and women who must die. Your name has been
spoken, yet never once has it been written. When it is written----"
He paused with a portentous hush.

"To-day, when I realized you were at last coming to me, when spy after
spy ran to my feet to say that at last--at last--Peter Moore, the
unconquerable, was coming to pay his long-overdue call--I hastened with
that daily quota of names of those who are doomed, so that I could
attend you with undivided attention.

"Can it interest you? Nine men are doomed. Within two weeks from this
hour a mandarin will die by the knife, an ambassador at the court of
Peking will expire by poison, an indiscreet Javanese merchant----" He
waved his skinny arms impatiently.

"Those whose names are written must inevitably die. If the name of
Peter Moore had but once appeared on the green silk--I could have
forgotten you--and rested.