the lids. A delightful feeling of contentment crept over him. If only he could sleep. Sweet dreams beckoned. More than anything else in the world he desired sleep, that is more than anything but the Gobi Diamond. Surreptitiously he felt in his inner pocket to see if the diamond were still there. He sighed with relief as his hand encountered it. Now he could sleep, now he could rest. Even his memory was breaking away from its moorings like a launch in a typhoon. He forgot everything, forgot his predicament, forgot the necessity to escape, forgot Chang Kien, yes, even the diamond itself. Tranquil sleep stole over him. The curtain of unconsciousness softly descended. The last thing he was conscious of was the calm even voice of the old man. "In the long still streets of evening anything and everything may happen."
When Ives Cranston awakened he was lying in a soft bed in an attractive room. The sun streamed in through a stained glass window. The room was not elaborately furnished but it was wonderfully restful. So quiet and peaceful it was, it urged one to slumber. He drew his hand across his eyes, striving to collect his memory. He felt remarkably well but all the happenings of the night preceding seemed like a dream. Suddenly he thought of the Gobi Diamond. He sprang from the bed. He was extremely nervous as he took his coat from a chair and felt in the inside pocket. After that he breathed easier. He still had the diamond. He had no inkling as to where he was, nor how he had gotten there. Although the room was serene he realized that his position was precarious to the extreme. Nevertheless, he was able to think clearly.
He walked into the adjoining bathroom and washed and brushed his hair. Then very deliberately he completed dressing. He was in no hurry. In fact, he rather hesitated to open the door that led from the room. What lay behind it? It was a hard question. Even after he had finished dressing, he was loathe to leave. He sat down on a couch. The climax of this particular adventure was upon him.
Even as he thus reflected, the door opened slowly. He gazed at it ominously until it had opened wide. Then a man appeared upon the threshold. He advanced into the room all smiles. But Cranston did not smile. His tongue and lips grew dry, for the figure that approached was that of Chang Kien.
"I came quietly," he said, "so that I would not disturb you if you were still sleeping. He who arouses a guest is more of a scoundrel than he who destroys a wondrous symphony. You must be hungry. I will order your breakfast to be served right here."
He walked across the room and pressed a button in the wall. A few minutes later Shung Kung appeared carrying a tray. On the tray were toast, a plate of cold chicken and a pot of coffee.
"For my own breakfast," mused Chang Kien, "I always take tea but I am aware that in this country coffee is given preference. Eat and may you enjoy your breakfast. While you do so I will read a bit."
As he spoke he drew a slender volume from his pocket.
"This little book," he continued, "is a history of the haikai form of poetry. It is Japanese and although I prefer the poems of China, still I like to read the poetry of other countries for comparative purposes. Chinese poetry is the oldest in the world. It has mellowed like old wine with age. Japanese poetry is mostly imitative. Its roots are buried in old China. Still there are gems in the literature of Japan which are superb in their loveliness. What could be more exquisite than:
"Thought I, the fallen flowers
Are returning to their branch;
But lo! they were butterflies."
I think of all Japanese poems I like best the haikais of Matsuro Basho:
"I come weary,
In search of an inn—
Ah! these wistaria flowers."
One would have to journey long to find aught that exceeds them in perfection."
Although Ives Cranston had no appetite, he ate mechanically. He felt as though an unseen net was tightening about him. Chang Kien could not have been more cordial, but it was unnatural. Under the circumstances
