be able to trace some event to that date. It was six months ago that
she began to take an interest in the fate of John Keith. Since then the
change in her has alarmed me, Conniston. I don't understand. She has
betrayed nothing. But I have seen her dying by inches under my eyes.
She is only a pale and drooping flower compared with what she was. I am
positive it is not a sickness--unless it is mental. I have a suspicion.
It is almost too terrible to put into words. You will be going up there
tonight--you will be alone with her, will talk with her, may learn a
great deal if you understand what it is that is eating like a canker in
my mind. Will you help me to discover her secret?" He leaned toward
Keith. He was no longer the man of iron. There was something intensely
human in his face.

"There is no other man on earth I would confide this matter to," he
went on slowly. "It will take--a gentleman--to handle it, someone who
is big enough to forget if my suspicion is untrue, and who will
understand fully what sacrilege means should it prove true. It is
extremely delicate. I hesitate. And yet--I am waiting, Conniston. Is it
necessary to ask you to pledge secrecy in the matter?"

Keith held out a hand. McDowell gripped it tight.

"It is--Shan Tung," he said, a peculiar hiss in his voice. "Shan
Tung--and Miriam Kirkstone! Do you understand, Conniston? Does the
horror of it get hold of you? Can you make yourself believe that it is
possible? Am I mad to allow such a suspicion to creep into my brain?
Shan Tung--Miriam Kirkstone! And she sees herself standing now at the
very edge of the pit of hell, and it is killing her."

Keith felt his blood running cold as he saw in the inspector's face the