and he was not yet at his journey's end.

He proceeded to the bedroom, emptied the battered kitbag, and began
to dress. He put on heavy tan walking shoes, gray woollen stockings,
gray knickerbockers, gray flannel shirt, and a Norfolk jacket minus
the third button.

Ah, that button! He fingered the loose threads which had aforetime
snugged the button to the wool. The carelessness of a tailor had
saved his life. Had that button held, his bones at this moment
would be reposing on the hillside in far-away Hong-Kong. Evidently
Fate had some definite plans regarding his future, else he would not
be in this room, alive. But what plans? Why should Fate bother
about him further? She had strained the orange to the last drop.
Why protect the pulp? Perhaps she was only making sport of him,
lulling him into the belief that eventually he might win through.
One thing, she would never be able to twist his heart again. You
cannot fill a cup with water beyond the brim. And God knew that
his cup had been full and bitter and red.

His hand swept across his eyes as if to brush away the pictures
suddenly conjured up. He must keep his thoughts off those things.
There was a taint of madness in his blood, and several times he
had sensed the brink at his feet. But God had been kind to him
in one respect: The blood of his glorious mother predominated.

How many were after him, and who? He had not been able to recognize
the man that night in Hong-Kong. That was the fate of the pursued:
one never dared pause to look back, while the pursuers had their man
before them always. If only he could have broken through into Greece,