nto the dim centuries, histories of murder and loot and envy. The
young man had imagination--perhaps too much of it. He saw the stones
palpitating upon lovely white and brown bosoms; he saw bloody and greedy
hands, the red sack of towns; he heard the screams of women and the
raucous laughter of drunken men. Murder and loot.

At the end of the cotton wool lay two emeralds about the size of half
dollars and half an inch in thickness, polished, and as vividly green
as a dragonfly in the sun, fit for the turban of Schariar, spouse of
Scheherazade.

Rodin would have seized upon the young man's attitude--the limp body,
the haggard face--hewn it out of marble and called it Conscience. The
possessor of the stones held this attitude for three or four minutes.
Then he rolled up the cotton wool, jammed it into the pouch, which he
hung to his neck by a thong, and sprang to his feet. No more of this
brooding; it was sapping his vitality; and he was not yet at his
journey's end.

He proceeded to the bedroom, emptied the battered kitbag, and began to
dress. He put on heavy tan walking shoes, gray woollen stockings, gray
knickerbockers, gray flannel shirt, and a Norfolk jacket minus the third
button.

Ah, that button! He fingered the loose threads which had aforetime
snugged the button to the wool. The carelessness of a tailor had saved
his life. Had that button held, his bones at this moment would be
reposing on the hillside in far-away Hong-Kong. Evidently Fate had some
definite plans regarding his future, else he would not be in this room,
alive. But what plans? Why should Fate bother about him further? She had
strained the orange to the last drop. Why protect the pulp? Perhaps
she was only making sport of him, lulling him into the belief that
eventually he might win through. One thing, she would never be able to
twist his heart again. You cannot fill a cup with water beyond the brim.
And God knew that his cup had been full and bitter and red.

His hand swept across his eyes as if to brush away the pictures suddenly
conjured up. He must keep his thoughts off those things. There was a
taint of madness in his blood, and several times he had sensed the brink
at his feet. But God had been kind to him in one respect: The blood of
his glorious mother predominated.

How many were after him, and who? He had not been able to recognize the
man that night in Hong-Kong. That was the fate of the pursued: one never
dared pause to look back