tility of life. He would never be able to swallow anything again. The old Chinaman had not been disturbed by the incident. He went on placidly working with his long slim fingers.
Drunkenly Jan Breedon staggered from the place, tears streaming from his eyes. He felt weak, completely exhausted. He returned to his hotel and gathered his few belongings together. Then he lay hidden in a notorious resort until the first train of the day left for Taiping. The journey took three hours, which to him seemed like years. Every passenger who got on board he was suspicious of. Intently he listened to their voices, alert to hear the voice of Captain Grandon. Of course Grandon was dead. He had killed him. But he had killed him once before; yet that had not prevented him from talking and walking about as though he still found life pleasurable. But this time, thanks to the knife, Grandon had been left in a condition that would render talking at least difficult.
The months that followed were devoted entirely to fleeing from imagined pursuers. Now Jan Breedon seldom went to sea. He was afraid of the voices of the water, though they were no worse than the whispering voices of the swamp. His descent was rapid; yet strangely enough he was able to earn some measure of money. He knew the Orient like a native. He acted as guide to venturesome tourists, and usually he emerged from these adventures with far more money than his agreed fee.
He decided that he would stay away from the seaport towns; yet when he went inland he was unhappy. The sea was in his blood. So often had he gone down to the sea in ships he felt a kinship with them. When he was away from the docks he was unhappy. He knew that he ought to leave the Orient, but somehow he couldn't tear himself away. Not for twenty years had he been home. He had a wife and two children somewhere in Europe, but he gave no more thought to them than if they had never existed. He was a thoroughly bad character and now he had become vicious. He attached himself to everyone like a leech. No beggar of Canton ever could have whined so pitifully.
Finally one day he drifted back to Macao. He wanted to visit The Singapore Hotel. Like many other criminals, he desired morbidly to visit the scene of his first crime.
Zaneen smiled as he noticed Jan Breedon slinking in, but there was little of friendliness behind that smile. Jan Breedon looked as though he were on his way to the scaffold. His hands felt as cold as ice. His legs seemed so weak he marveled that he could keep his feet. And yet there was something weirdly fascinating about walking once more through the rooms of The Singapore. When for a moment his eyes met those of Zaneen and Zaneen nodded to him in greeting, he felt much relieved. At least he had nothing to fear from the one man in Macao who could have caused him trouble. Jan Breedon sat down at a table and ordered a cognac. Zaneen wandered over and sat down for a moment beside him.
"So you're back again," he said.
"I suppose you're surprized," Jan Breedon managed to whisper huskily.
"No, not exactly. After all, why should you have kept away? These little shooting affrays happen occasionally. They are unfortunate, but I have grown to think of them as purely a matter of business routine. You have nothing to fear from the authorities. The matter was never reported. It is a secret between you and me and the sharks. But let me
