Without a word Wentworth stepped across the room, unlocked his trunk,
and from its depths drew the sable coat that Hedin had last seen upon
the shoulders of Jean McNabb as she walked from the store upon that
memorable Saturday. With a conscious effort he controlled himself, and
reaching out his hand took the coat and carried it to the window. He
was conscious that the engineer's eyes were fastened intently upon him
as, inch by inch, he carefully examined the garment whose every
skin--every hair, almost--was familiar to him. Still holding the coat,
he spoke more to himself than to Wentworth. "A fine piece. All good
dark Yakutsk skins. And the matching is good. Only one skin a shade
off----"

"What's it worth?" asked Wentworth abruptly. "I don't care a damn
about the specifications. They don't mean anything to me. I knew it
was a fine garment the minute I spotted it, and I knew Hedin was lying
when he said it was a marten."

"Hedin?" queried the clerk. "Was that the name of the princess? She
must be a fool to say this is a marten."

"No, no! Hedin is a man. And he is a fool, all right. Fool enough to
let a damn fool girl make a fool of him----"

Wentworth suddenly saw a blinding flash of light. He felt himself
falling; then he lay very still as a shower of little star-like sparks
flowed upward from a black abyss.

The instant he struck, Hedin realized the folly of his act. He would
have given all he possessed to have recalled the blow. McNabb had
trusted him to carry out a carefully laid plan--and he had failed. He