For a space Dennison did not stir. Why should he wish to protect his

father? Between his father and this handsome rogue there was small choice.

The old boy made such rogues possible. But supposing Cleigh had wished

really to quiz Jane? To find out something about these seven years, lean

and hard, with stretches of idleness and stretches of furious labour,

loneliness? Well, the father would learn that in all these seven years the

son had never faltered from the high level he had set for his conduct.

That was a stout staff to lean on--he had the right to look all men

squarely in the eye.

He had been educated to inherit millions; he had not been educated to

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support himself by work in a world that specialized. He had in these seven

years been a jeweller's clerk, an auctioneer in a salesroom; he had

travelled from Baluchistan to Damascus with carpet caravans, but he had

never forged ahead financially. Generally the end of a job had been the

end of his resources. One fact the thought of which never failed to buck

him up--he had never traded on his father's name.

Then had come the war. He had returned to America, trained, and they had

assigned him to Russia. But that had not been without its reward--he had

met Jane.

In a New York bank, to his credit, was the sum of twenty thousand dollars,

at compound interest for seven years, ready to answer to the scratch of a

pen, but he had sworn he would never touch a dollar of it. Never before

had the thought of it risen so strongly to tempt him. His for the mere

scratch of a pen!

In the lobby he found the manager pacing nervously, while Ling Foo sat

patiently and inscrutably.

"Why do you wait?" inquired Dennison, irritably.

"The lady has some jade of mine," returned Ling Foo, placidly. "It was a

grave mistake."

"What was?"

"That you interfered this afternoon. The lady would be in her room at this

hour. The devil beads would not be casting a spell on us."

"Devil beads, eh?"

Ling Foo shrugged and ran his hands into his sleeves. Somewhere along the

banks of the Whangpoo or the Yang-tse would be the body of an unknown, but

Ling Foo's lips were locked quite as securely as the dead man's. Devil

beads they were.

"When did the man upstairs leave the beads with you?"

"Last night."

"For what reason?"

"He will tell you. It is none of my affair now." And that was all Dennison

could dig out of Ling Foo.




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