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of Tao Tao, however, that made him thoughtful as he walked slowly back toward the bungalow that evening. He told himself that this was no concern of his anyway, and yet he was vaguely troubled. There were plenty of plantations within a figurative stone's throw of the equator that were going to ruin from a variety of causes, and he was no more perturbed on their account than he was at the thought of the number of cross-eyed Chinamen in Pekin who were suffering from dyspepsia. But Joan Trent had centred her hopes on Tao Tao. Joan had immolated herself there for four long years in the hope that it was going to prove a fine, paying concern. Joan was giving the best years of her life helping her brother to run a plantation which even an ignorant, kinky-haired cannibal summed up as "no good." True, the kinky-haired cannibal was only speaking of it as "no good" in a comparative sense; but the fairest gem of the South Seas was not good enough a setting for Joan. These were the thoughts which were chasing one another through his brain when he emerged from the avenue of palms leading to the bungalow and saw the girl standing on the veranda, with her hands resting lightly on the rail. She had let down the coils of her hair which streamed like burnished copper in the breeze. Her head was poised a little on one side as she gazed out to sea. Keith stood, breathless, for a few moments; and then, like a