terest for me--like waiting for the end of a story in the magazines."

"But there is one thing missing out of the tale," Jane interposed.

"And what is that?" asked Cunningham.

"Those beads."

"Oh, those beads! They belonged to an empress of France, and the French
Government is offering sixty thousand for their return. Napoleonic. And
now will you answer a question of mine? Where have you hidden them?"

Jane did not answer, but rose and left the dining salon. Silence fell upon
the men until she returned. In her hand she held Ling Foo's brass hand
warmer. She set it on the table and pried back the jigsawed lid. From the
heap of punk and charcoal ashes she rescued the beads and laid them on the
cloth.

"Very clever. They are yours," said Cunningham.

"Mine?"

"Why not? Findings is keepings. They are as much yours as mine."

Jane pushed the string toward Cleigh.

"For me?" he said.

"Yes--for nothing."

"There is sixty thousand dollars in gold in my safe. When we land in San
Francisco I will turn over the money to you. You have every right in the
world to it."

Cleigh blew the ash from the glass beads and circled them in his palm.

"I repeat," she said, "they are yours."

Cunningham stood up.

"Well, what's it to be?"

"I have decided to reserve my decision," answered Cleigh, dryly. "To hang
you 'twixt wind and water will add to the thrill, for evidently that's
what you're after."

"If it's on your own you'll only be wasting coal."

Cleigh toyed with the beads.

"The _Haarlem_. Maybe I can save you a lot of trouble," said Cunningham.
"The name is only on her freeboard and stern, not on her master's ticket.
The moment we are hull down the old name goes back." Cunningham turned to
Jane. "Do you believe I've put my cards on the table?"

"Yes."

"And that if I humanly can I'll keep my word?"

"Yes."

"That's worth many pearls of price!"

"Supposing," said Cleigh, trickling the beads from palm to
palm--"supposing I offered you the equivalent in cash?"

"No, Eisenfeldt has my word."

"You refuse?" Plainly Cleigh was jarred out of his calm. "You refuse?"

"I've already explained," said Cunningham, wearily. "I've told you that I
like sharp knives to play with. If you handle them carelessly you're cut.
How about you?" Cunningham addressed the question to Dennison.

"Oh, I'm neutral and interested. I've always had a sneaking admiration for
a tomfool. They were Shakespeare's best characters. Con