to verbal combat. He knew his visitor was shrewd, that he had come there with a definite purpose, that he was a worthy antagonist. A war of words was a tonic of relaxation. It burned away ennui, it quickened the blood. But he waited for his opponent to make the first move. Therefore with a fine air of studied casualness, he picked up a volume of fragile poems, legends, sketches, lyrics in jade.
"The vexing thing about these poems," he reflected, "is that they are better than the originals, from an American viewpoint, which is true of so many things in this amazing country. The greatest lie in any of your great men's lives is their obituaries. The way dead men are eulogized gives me the feeling that they must have been guilty of grave crimes. In our country we believe that the vast power of Heaven and Earth make them like unto deities. Therefore the dead, buried in the earth, are protected by the great powers of the universe."
"No thought could be more beautiful," Andrews interposed, "but then the Chinese people have acute understanding. What better emblem could be found than their bundled firewood as a symbol of contentment!"
"I am humbled that you appreciate the simple philosophy of my people." He sighed gently, before he added, "However, I doubt if you came here today merely to repeat proverbs. Surely there must be some slight service I can render you."
"There is indeed," said Andrews, equally as abrupt. "The reason I came here tonight was because I wished to converse with you about Caya Wu."
At that Chan Kien's expression underwent a change. The mask slipped and his face was horrible to behold. He sprang from his chair, his fingers clawing the air.
Kerle Andrews eyed him coolly, seeming in no way perturbed, but his muscles were taut, ready to go into action instantly if occasion required. Then with a visible effort, Qian Kien caught control of himself and with a sigh that was almost a groan he fell back into his chair. He closed his eyes. Now once more the mask was adjusted. But his face bore a sickly pallor and he seemed to have trouble in breathing.
"You came to my house as a friend," he whispered intensely, "then why did you mention Caya Wu?"
"What matter, since she is dead?"
"She is not dead! She dwells in my heart. And when I sit alone in a room I can feel her presence as though she is reading over my shoulder. Man's life is naught but a tragedy, a tragedy with laughter. But what interest can you possibly have in my beloved?"
"Because I believe that the death of Peter Larkin is traceable to his association with her."
"So you are aware of what happened in China?"
"Definitely. Now I am attempting to discover what happened in New York since your arrival. It is my belief you are traveling down the long old road of memory."
"If you mean I never forget, I plead guilty That is my fault. But I did not kill Peter Larkin. It would have been a pleasure, but he saved me the trouble. He committed suicide. Your police have spoken. Who am I to contradict?"
"So I see," said Kerle Andrews curtly, "you only know what you read in the papers."
"Do you doubt that Peter Larkin committed suicide?"
"No, but I am interested in the motive. Why did he commit suicide while you were in America?"
"That was his concern, not mine. To show him I bore him no ill will I sent him a long thin knife with a carved ivory handle. It was a beautiful thing. Again I sent him a mahogany coffin. In my coun-
