swam into your hand? Wasn't this particularly his affair? It was
the end, not the means. A close touch in Hong-Kong, but the fool
had slipped away. But there, in the next room, assured that he had
escaped - it would be easy. The squat man tiptoed to the window.
Luck of luck, there was a fire-escape platform! He would let half
an hour pass, then he would act. The ape, with his British
mannerisms! Death to the breed, root and branch! He sat down to
wait.

On the other side of the wall the bather finished his ablutions.
His body was graceful, vigorous, and youthful, tinted a golden
bronze. His nose was hawky; his eyes a Latin brown, alert and
roving, though there was a hint of weariness in them, the pressure
of long, racking hours of ceaseless vigilance. His top hair was
a glossy black inclined to curl; but the four days' growth of
beard was as blond as a ripe chestnut burr. In spite of this mark
of vagabondage there were elements of beauty in the face. The
expanse of the brow and the shape of the head were intellectual.
The mouth was pleasure-loving, but the nose and the jaw neutralized
this.

After he had towelled himself he reached down for a brown leather
pouch which lay on the three-legged bathroom stool. It was patently
a tobacco pouch, but there was evidently something inside more
precious than Saloniki. He held the pouch on his palm and stared at
it as if it contained some jinn clamouring to be let out. Presently
he broke away from this fascination and rocked his body, eyes closed
- like a man suffering unremitting pain.

"God's curse on them!" he whispered, opening his eyes. He raised