at the mercy of brigands and frequently brigands had been at the mercy of Chan Kien in his office of magistrate, for among his host of duties was that of meting out justice. In this he was somewhat of an epicure. When a head had to roll in the dust, he insisted that the axe be sharp so there need be no unnecessary suffering. Pete and I did much trading with him in carved ivories, amber, nephrites and jades. Chan Kien was a connoisseur of jade and women and it so happened that in his house in Peiping where he was accustomed to receive us, lived a girl of languid beauty named Caya Wu. She was slim and dark and lovely. Her lips were like splashes of blood against the pearls of her teeth. When she walked through the enclosed garden upon which the rooms of the house opened, she swayed in so reed-like a manner it was impossible not to be charmed. Pete Larkin beheld her through an open window as she walked in the garden. Impulsively, he said, 'Who is yon lovely girl?' Chan Kien did not like the question. In China it is bad form to discuss the women of the household with the master. Nevertheless, Chan replied, 'She is a golden slave that I recently purchased.'
"Impulsively Peter Larkin asked, 'Care to sell?' At that an expression flitted momentarily across the face of Chan Kien that was not pleasant to behold, even though his voice remained affable, as he said, 'She was a slave but she is a slave no longer. Any woman I hold in my arms is thereafter a free woman. That is the gift I bestow upon her. As for Caya Wu, she is happy here. All my wealth I lay at her feet. She commands my heart.' That ended the discussion but Pete Larkin smiled as he lighted a cigarette. Chan Kien went back into the Gobi the next morning and we returned to our hotel.
"I thought the incident was closed but I reasoned incorrectly. Something about Caya Wu had imbedded itself so deeply in Pete Larkin's mind he could think of nothing else. And he decided that he must possess Caya Wu though it was the last thing he did on earth. The Chinese believe that woman is a wanton creature always waiting to go astray. Whether or not that is true, it certainly was the case with Caya Wu. She was nothing more than a lovely courtesan. She had no soul. Fire did not burn her. When Peter made overtures to her, her smile was warm and friendly. Before long they were meeting clandestinely in the garden of her house under the spell of a spring moon. When two people are happy, the Chinese believe, it is always spring even though it be fur coat weather. Then one night Chan Kien returned unexpectedly. When he did not find her in any of the various rooms of the house that squared the garden, he walked down one of the marble paths to where a willow tree formed friendly shadows, and there he found them in close embrace. Chan Kien sighed. It was a perfect night. It seemed a shame to be forced to shatter the rhythm of the garden by unseemly actions, but there was work for him to do. Like steel claws he extended his fingers. They groped about in the dark until they found her white jade throat. How soft was her flesh as his fingers leaped to destroy it. It was a night of poetry and dream. Had Tu Fu still lived, he might have written a lyric, 'To the Blue Face of Caya, Dying.' Even as her breath ceased, even as the perfume of her lips no longer mingled with the soft songs of the flowers, Chan Kien noticed the startled, masklike, terror-stricken face of Peter Larkin. When Chan Kien had assured himself that Caya Wu would no longer be disturbed by figures of earth, his fingers wearily relaxed. Now they sought the neck of Pete Larkin to complete their handiwork, but Pete fled ignominiously with the speed of the wind as though all the terrors that haunt the
