or cowardice but he felt convinced that his death was the only payment
possible.

But as his finger pressed the trigger there was a slight sound
beside him, his wrist and arm were caught in a vice-like grip and
the weapon exploded harmlessly in the air as he staggered back,
his arm almost broken with the jiu-jitsu hold against which even
his great strength could do nothing. He struggled fruitlessly
until he was released, then reeled against the table, with teeth
set, clasping his wrenched wrist--the sudden frustration of his
purpose leaving him, shaking. He turned stiffly. Yoshio was
standing by him, phlegmatic as usual, showing no signs of exertion
or emotion as he proffered a lacquer tray, with the usual formula:
"Master's mail."

Craven's eyes changed slowly from dull suffering to blazing wrath.
Uncontrolled rage filled him. How dared Yoshio interfere? How
dared he drag him back into the hell from which he had so nearly
escaped? He caught the man's shoulder savagely.

"Damn you!" he cried chokingly. "What the devil do you mean--"
But the Jap's very impassiveness checked him and with an immense
effort he regained command of himself. And imperturbably Yoshio
advanced the tray again.

"Master's mail," he repeated, in precisely the same voice as
before, but this time he raised his veiled glance to Craven's
face. For a moment the two men stared at each other, the grey eyes
tortured and drawn, the brown ones lit for an instant with deep
devotion. Then Craven took the letters mechanically and dropped