He proceeded to the bedroom, emptied the battered kitbag, and began to

dress. He put on heavy tan walking shoes, gray woollen stockings, gray

knickerbockers, gray flannel shirt, and a Norfolk jacket minus the third

button.

Ah, that button! He fingered the loose threads which had aforetime

snugged the button to the wool. The carelessness of a tailor had saved

his life. Had that button held, his bones at this moment would be

reposing on the hillside in far-away Hong-Kong. Evidently Fate had some

definite plans regarding his future, else he would not be in this room,

alive. But what plans? Why should Fate bother about him further? She had

strained the orange to the last drop. Why protect the pulp? Perhaps

she was only making sport of him, lulling him into the belief that

eventually he might win through. One thing, she would never be able to

twist his heart again. You cannot fill a cup with water beyond the brim.

And God knew that his cup had been full and bitter and red.

His hand swept across his eyes as if to brush away the pictures suddenly

conjured up. He must keep his thoughts off those things. There was a

taint of madness in his blood, and several times he had sensed the brink

at his feet. But God had been kind to him in one respect: The blood of

his glorious mother predominated.

How many were after him, and who? He had not been able to recognize the

man that night in Hong-Kong. That was the fate of the pursued: one never

dared pause to look back, while the pursuers had their man before them

always. If only he could have broken through into Greece, England would

have been easy. The only door open had been in the East. It seemed

incredible that he should be standing in this room, but three hours from

his goal.

America! The land of the free and the brave! And the irony of it was

that he must seek in America the only friends he had in the world.

All the Englishmen he had known and loved were dead. He had never made

friends with the French, though he loved France. In this country alone

he might successfully lose himself and begin life anew. The British were

British and the French were French; but in this magnificent America they

possessed the tenacity of the one and the gayety of the other--these

joyous, unconquered, speed-loving Americans.

He took up the overcoat. Under the light it was no longer black but

a very deep green. On both sleeves there were narrow bands of a still

deeper green, indicating that gold or silver braid had once befrogged

the cuffs. Inside, soft silky Persian lamb; and he ran his fingers over

the fur thoughtfully. The coat was still impregnated with the strong

odour of horse. He cast it aside, never to touch it again. From the

discarded small coat he extracted a black wallet and opened it. That

passport! He wondered if there existed another more cleverly forged. It

would not have served an hour west of the Hindenburg Line; but in the

East and here in America no one had questioned it. In San Francisco they

had scarcely glanced at it, peace having come. Besides this passport the

wallet contained a will, ten bonds, a custom appraiser's receipt and

a sheaf of gold bills. The will, however, was perhaps one of the most

astonishing documents conceivable. It left unreservedly to Capt. John

Hawksley the contents of the wallet!




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