ed when you threw the coolie
overboard? I said nothing; rather, I asked you no questions; and I
thought that a man who was self-poised enough to meet his enemies in
that way would be--what shall I say?--charitable enough to overlook
such a----" She paused. "When I confessed that you and I are facing a
common enemy, that the same hands are eager to do away with both of us,
I thought that bond was sufficient, was strong enough, to justify what
might shock an ordinary man. I mean----"

"I think I understand," Peter took her up in contrite tones. "I'll ask
nothing more. In the morning we will talk the other matter over. I
must have a little time. For the present, I want you to keep the
revolver, and--here is the cameo. Forgive me for being so
unreasonable, so--so selfish."

He leaned over. She seemed uncertain a moment, then caught the gold
chain lightly from his hand.

"And--your revolver," she said. "Those are the terms of the agreement,
I believe."

"No, no," he protested. "I have no use for it; none whatever. You
keep it."

But quite as resolutely Romola Borria shook her head and extended the
automatic, butt foremost, to him. "I insist," she said.

"But you say you're in danger," he argued.

"No. Not now. I have something else that will do quite as well. If
it is written that I am to die, why give Death cause to be angry? I am
a fatalist, you see. And I want you to take back your revolver, with
my apologies, and quite without any more explanation than I have given
you, please."

"But----" began Peter.

"Look," she said.

In the small space of the stateroom he could not avoid bending so low
as to sense the warmth of her skin, in order to study the object toward
which she was directing his gaze. A sense of hot confusion permeated
him as her fingers lightly caressed his hand; her physical nearness
obsessed him.

She had drawn back the fluffy pillow, and on the white sheet he
glimpsed a long, bright, and exceedingly dangerous-looking dagger, with
a jewel-incrusted hilt.

The singular thing about this knife was the shape of the blade, which
was thin and with three sides, like a machinist's file. It would be a
good dagger to throw away after a killing because of the triangular
hole it would leave as a wound, a bit of evidence decidedly
incriminating.

Peter straightened up, round-eyed, accepted the automatic, and slipped
it into his pocket, smoothing his coat and the sarong over the lum