From the day Reynolds reembarked, Tsang’s silken, slippered feet silently followed him from smoking-room to bar, from bar back to smoking-room.  Whatever emotion troubled the depths of his being, no sign of it rose to his ageless, youthless face.  But whether he was silently performing his duties on deck, or sitting on the hatchway smoking his opium, his vigilant eyes from their long, narrow slits kept watch.

For thirteen days the sun sparkled on the blue waters of the Pacific, and favoring breezes gave every promise of landing the East India in port with the fastest record of the season.  Bets went higher and higher on each day’s running, and the excitement was intense each evening in the smoking-room when the numbers most likely to win the next day’s pool were auctioned off to the highest bidder.

It was the afternoon of the fourteenth day, thirty-six hours out from San Francisco, that Mr. Frederick Reynolds, who had bet more, drunk more, talked more, and laughed more than any man on board, suddenly came to his full senses.  Then it was that he went quietly to his luxurious state-room with its brass bed and crimson hangings, and took a forty-two caliber revolver from his steamer trunk.  Slipping a cartridge into the cylinder, he sat breathing heavily and staring impatiently before him.

From outside above the roar of the ocean, came the tramp of the passengers on deck, and the trivial scraps of conversation that floated in kept side-tracking his thoughts, preventing their reaching the desired destination.

The world, which he had sternly resolved to leave, seemed determined to stay with him as long as possible.  He heard Glass, the actor, inquiring for him, and in spite of himself he felt flattered; he heard the pretty girl whose steamer chair was next his, make a conditional engagement with the high-voiced army-officer, and he knew why she left the matter open; even a plaintive old voice inquiring how long it would be before tea, caused him to wait for the answer.

At last, as if to present his misery in embodied form, he produced a note-book and tried to concentrate his attention upon the items therein recorded.  Line after line of wavering figures danced in impish glee before him, defying inspection.  But at the foot of the column, like soldiers waiting to shoot a prisoner, stood four formidable units unquestionably pointing his way to doom.

As be looked at them Reynolds’s thoughts got back on the main track and rushed to a conclusion.  Tearing the leaf from the book, and crushing it in his hand, he jumped to his feet.  Seized with a fury of self-disgust, he pulled off his coat and collar, and with the reckless courage of a boy put the mouth of the revolver to his temple.

As he did so the room darkened.  He involuntarily looked up.  Framed in the circle of the port-hole were the head and shoulders of Tsang Foo.  Not a muscle of the yellow face moved, not a tremor of the slanting eyelids showed surprise.  The right hand, holding a bit of tow, mechanically continued polishing the brass around the port-hole, but the left—­long, thin, and with claw-like nails, shot stealthily forward and snatched the pistol.