"Maybe that hits it, though I've never stopped to analyze. I never think

of death; it is a waste of gray matter. I should be no nearer death in

Tibet than I should be asleep in a cradle. Why bother about the absolute,

the inevitable? Humanity wears itself out building bridges for imaginary

torrents. I am an exception; that is why I shall be young and handsome up

to the moment the grim stalker puts his claw on my shoulder."

He smiled whimsically.

"But you, have you never caught some of the passion for possessing rare

paintings, rugs, manuscripts?"

"You miss the point. What does the sense of possession amount to beside

the sense of seeking and finding? Cleigh here thinks he is having a thrill

when he signs a check. It is to laugh!"

"Have you ever killed a man?" It was one of those questions that leap

forth irresistibly. Jane was a bit frightened at her temerity.

Cunningham drank his coffee deliberately.

"Yes."

"Oh!"

Jane shrank back a little.

"But never willfully," Cunningham added--"always in self-defence, and

never a white man."

There was a peculiar phase about the man's singular beauty. Animated, it

was youthful; in grim repose, it was sad and old.

"Death!" said Jane in a kind of awed whisper. "I have watched many die,

and I cannot get over the terror of it. Here is a man with all the

faculties, physical and mental; a human being, loving, hating, working,

sleeping; and in an instant he is nothing!"

"A Chinaman once said that the thought of death is as futile as water in

the hand. By the way, Cleigh--and you too, captain--give the wireless a

wide berth. There's death there."

Jane saw the fire opals leap into the dark eyes.




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