His resignation to the chains forged by himself seemed to Angela the saddest part of all.  He was beyond help, and knew it, did not even think of it.

She had a strange burning behind her eyes, as she listened, though she was not inclined to cry.

“It is awful,” she whispered.  “Such days—­such nights—­such years.  But—­you do not lie here always?”

“Most of the time,” he answered, the little spark of physical contentment beginning to dim in his eyes already.  “I am very weak.  I do not walk, except when I go down the passage to cook a little coffee once a day.  Or sometimes I crawl out in the sun.  But soon I come back.  I can stand only a few minutes.  I am too light in the head, when I get on my feet.  When I was young I was tall and large.  But a man shrinks small after the opium gets him.”

“How you must regret!” Angela sighed.

“I do not know.  Why regret when it is too late?  I regret that it is hard to find opium.  It is forbidden now, and very dear.  I sell the cleanings of my pipe—­the yenshee, we call it—­so I keep going.”

“How can you bear to sell to others what has ruined your life?” Angela could not help asking.

“I would do anything now to have opium,” he said calmly.  “But it is the old smokers who smoke the yenshee, not the young ones.  So I do no harm.”

Angela sprang up, shuddering.  “Is there nothing I can do to help you?” she pleaded, her eyes turned from him, as he began to cook another pill.

“You can buy something I sell.  That will help.  Do you like this?” And he pointed to a little painted china group of three monkeys, one of which covered its ears, another its eyes, and the third its mouth.  “You know what it means?  ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’  It is the motto of our people.”

“Yes—­I’ll buy that.  It’s a good motto,” Angela stammered.  Taking up the little figures, she laid a five-dollar gold piece on the box table, knowing only too well what it would buy.

“You wish to see me smoke this other pipe?” and he put it to his toothless mouth.

“No—­I can’t bear it.”

She pushed past the Chinese girl, hardly knowing what she did.  She felt faint and sick, as if she must have fresh air.  As her hand fumbled for the latch, the door was pushed violently open, and Hilliard came in, with Schermerhorn at his back.

“Thank Heaven!” Nick stammered.  He was very pale.

“You gave us a pretty bad scare, Miss,” added the man, who had been informed that Nick was “not her husband.”

“Lucky I thought of this house, and this old chap.”

“But—­there was no danger,” Angela defended herself.  “Nothing could have happened.”

“Most anything can happen—­in Chinatown,” mumbled Schermerhorn.  “Did you ever read a story by Norris called The Third Circle?”

“Not yet,” said Angela.  “I bought the book, but——­”