"My mother," she said wonderingly. "He was Bar-ree, too. See," she
added pointing with a slender forefinger to the name engraved
inside the case.

A nightbird shrieked weirdly close to the house and a sudden gust
of wind moaned through the pine trees. The sweat stood out on
Craven's forehead in great drops and the cigarette, fallen from
his hand, lay smouldering on the matting at his feet.

He pulled the girl to him and turning her face up stared down into
the great grey eyes, piteous now with unknown fear, and cursed his
blindness. Often the unrecognised likeness had puzzled him. He
dropped the miniature and ground it savagely to powder with his
heel, heedless of O Hara San's sharp cry of distress, and turned
to the railing gripping it with shaking hands.

"Damn him, damn him!"

Why had instinct never warned him? Why had he, knowing the girl's
mixed parentage and knowing his own family history, made no
inquiries? A wave of sick loathing swept over him. His head
reeled. He turned to O Hara San crouched sobbing on the matting
over the little heap of crushed gold and pearls. Was there still a
loop-hole?

"What was he to you?" he said hoarsely, and he did not recognise
his own voice.

She looked up fearfully, then shrank back with a cry--hiding her
eyes to shut out the distorted face that bent over her.