try that is esteemed as a present to cherish. What more could I do for him?"
"What more did you do?" asked Kerle Andrews bluntly. "As for your gracious gifts, I'd say a sharp knife biting into one's flesh might cause death comparatively without pain. Therefore I am surprised that Peter Larkin chose death by a bullet. The thin knife death would have been far more poetical. As for the gift of a coffin to a man with overwrought nerves, it's appalling. You chose your presents well. They are interesting to muse over. It is subtle revenge indeed to send such implements to the man whom you are stalking."
"They were tributes to mark my forgiveness."
"And also symbols of death."
"You are both blunt and keen at the same time. In China we have a saying that a man cannot live under the same sky as the murderer of a member of his family. And Caya Wu was closer to me than a wife. Peter Larkin killed her, even though it was my hand that drove the knife. He created the need for it. Caya Wu was my slave but once she belonged to me, thereafter it was I who belonged to her. When Peter Larkin came, an evil force, into my garden, he caused me to lose face. In my own estimation I shrunk to dwarf size. He had caused Caya Wu to violate my confidence; so I killed her. But she is still living. Wherever I go, she is near. She invades my thoughts. She causes all other women to be ugly in my eyes. Sometimes in the hush of the night she speaks to me and her voice is flower soft. When I called at the office of Peter Larkin he was almost in complete collapse. He gazed at me, speechless, his eyes glazed. I did not raise my voice. In a quiet tone I told him that he would not live throughout the year, that I was planning a torturous death for him that would make men's flesh creep merely to read about it. To emphasize my statements I left with him an elegantly bound copy of 'Torture Garden.' Thereafter I met him frequently. I was seldom far away. When he ate at various restaurants, invariably I would be at an adjoining table. Once at 'The Lyceum Theater' on an opening night I sat directly in front of him. On another occasion he flew to Washington and I was a passenger on the same plane. Always I was courteous to him. I bowed formally, and smiled, but he seldom acknowledged my greeting. His mind was in tumult. He could not sleep, and looked it. Once while he was driving back from Philadelphia, his car sideswiped a farm truck and he missed death by a fraction. He attributed the accident to me, even though I was in a car fully a quarter mile behind him. Actually I never once raised my hand against him. I knew his own nerves would solve the problem for me. I understand that he always slept in a room with the lights turned on, nor were they extinguished till morning came. He must have imagined that I was some fabulous monster who could assemble out of the very air. It was pleasant to watch his gradual disintegration. Nothing is more stimulating than the sight of an enemy gradually cracking up. Finally the nerves of Peter Larkin snapped and he committed suicide. He believed there was no escape, that he was helpless against my power. He believed I had numerous hidden alliances, that my schemes spread out like an octopus to cover the country. A fantastic delusion. Can I be censured for believing that his death was in the sweet nature of a blessing?"
"So it was murder after all," mused Kerle Andrews.
"It was suicide. The police have spoken," said Chan Kien. "In only one detail were they wrong. It was not a bullet that killed Peter Larkin, rather it was a woman's kiss, the caressing soft pressure of the lips of Caya Wu."
