instinct
of the rulers of the people. He could be careless of the law. He was
strong in it. In his own mind he and the law were one. His perception of
the relations of life was so complete that he had no further use for the
written law; and Farrell Wand's was so limited that he had never found
the use for it. Lawless both; but--the two extremes. They might seem to
meet--but between those two extremes, between a Chatworth and a Farrell
Wand--why, there was all the world's experience between!

She raised her eyes and smiled at him in thinking of it, but the smile
faltered and she drew away. They were about to be disturbed. Beyond the
rose branches far down the drive she saw a figure moving toward them at
a slow, uncertain pace, looking to and fro. "See, there's some one
coming."

"Oh, the gardener!" he said as one would say "Oh, fiddlesticks!"

The gardener had been her first thought. But now she rose uneasily,
since she saw it was not he, asking herself, "Who else, at such an
hour?"

By this time Chatworth, still seated, had caught sight of it. "Hello,"
he said, "what sort of a thing is that?"

It was a short, shabby, nondescript little figure, shuffling rapidly
along the winding walk between the rose bushes. Now they saw the top of
his round black felt hat. Now only a twinkling pair of legs. Now, around
the last clump of bushes he appeared full length, and, suddenly dropping
his businesslike shuffle, approached them at a languid walk.

Flora grasped Chatworth's arm in nervous terror. "Tell him to go," she
whispered; "make him go away."

The blue-eyed Chinaman was planted before them stolidly, with the
curious blind look of his guarded eyes blinking in his withered face. He
wore for the first time the blouse of his people, and his hands were
folded in his sleeves.

"Who's this?" said Chatworth, appealing to Flora.

At this the Chinaman spoke. "Mr. Crew," he croaked.

The Englishman, looking from the Oriental to Flora, still demanded
explanations with expostulating gesture.

"It is the man who sold us the sapphire," she whispered; and "Oh, what
does he want of you?"

"Eh?" said Chatworth, interrogating the goldsmith with his monocle.
"What do you want?"

The little man finished his long, and, what had seemed his blind, stare;
then dived into his sleeve. He drew forth a crumpled thing which seemed
to be a pellet and this he proceeded to unfold. Flora crept cautiously
forward, loath to come near, but curio