plenty of that.

Idly he reached for the broken cigar that lay at the foot of the bed.
He would have tossed it aside as one of his own had not the carnelian
band attracted his attention. He hadn't smoked that quality of tobacco
in years. He turned it over and over, and it grew more and more
familiar. Mallow's!

XVI

WHO IS PAUL ELLISON?

For some time Warrington sat upon the edge of the bed and studied the
cigar, balanced it upon his palm, as if striving to weigh accurately
Mallow's part in a scrimmage like this. The copra-grower assuredly
would be the last man to give a cigar to a Chinaman. His gifts kept
his coolies hopping about in a triangle of cuffs and kicks and
pummelings. He had doubtless given the cigar to another white man
likely enough, Craig, who, with reckless inebriate generosity, had in
turn presented it to the Oriental. Besides, Mallow was rich. What
stepping-stones he had used to acquire his initial capital were not
perfectly known; but Warrington had heard rumors of shady transactions
and piratical exploits in the pearl zone. Mallow, rich, was Mallow
disposed of, at least logically; unless indeed it was a bit of
anticipatory reprisal. That might possibly be. A drunken Mallow was
capable of much, for all that his knowledge of letters of credit might
necessarily be primitive.

Pah! The abominable odor of fish still clung. He reached for his pipe
and lighted it, letting the smoke sink into his beard.

Yet, Mallow was no fool. He would scarcely take such risk for so
unstable and chancely a thing as revenge of this order. Craig? He
hadn't the courage. Strong and muscular as he was, he was the average
type of gambler, courageous only when armed with a pack of cards,
sitting opposite a fool and his money. But, Craig and Mallow together.
. . . He slipped off the label. It was worth preserving.

With an unpleasant laugh he began to get into his clothes. Why not?
The more he thought of it, the more he was positive that the two had
been behind this assault. The belt would have meant a good deal to
Craig. There were a thousand Chinese in Singapore who would cut a
man's throat for a Straits dollar. Either Mallow or Craig had seen him
counting the money on shipboard. It had been a pastime of his to throw
the belt on the bunk-blanket and play with the gold and notes; like a
child with its Christmas blocks. He had spent hours gloating over the
yellow metal and crackly paper wh