dismissed the Japanese who vanished further along the road into
the shadows. Then he turned and waited for his master to precede
him through the gateway, but Craven signed to him to go on, and as
the man disappeared up the garden path he crossed the road and
standing on the edge of the cliff looked down across the harbour.
The American yacht was the biggest craft of her kind in the roads
and easily discernible in the moonlight. The brilliant deck
illumination had been shut off and only a few lights showed. He
gave a quick sigh. Atherton's coming had been like a bar drawn
suddenly across the stream down which he was drifting. If Jermyn
had only come last year! The envy he had felt earlier in the
evening increased. He thought of the look he had seen in Atherton's
eyes and the intonation of his voice when the American spoke of the
wife to whom he was returning. What did love like that mean to a
man? What factor in Atherton's strenuous and adventurous life had
affected him as this had done? What were the ethics of a love that
rose purely above physical attraction--environment--temperament; a
love that grew and strengthened and absorbed until it ceased to be a
part of life and became life itself--the main issue, the fundamental
essence?

And as Craven watched he saw the yacht steam slowly down the bay.
He drew a deep breath.

"You lucky, lucky devil," he whispered again and swung on his
heel. He paused for a moment just within the gateway where on the
only level part of the garden lay a miniature lake, hedged round
with bamboo, clumps of oleander, fed by a little twisting stream
that came tumbling and splashing down the hillside in a series of
tiny waterfalls, its banks fringed with azalea bushes and slender