irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its light—­a sort of scientific scandal-mongering.  Thus with Patusan.  It was referred to knowingly in the inner government circles in Batavia, especially as to its irregularities and aberrations, and it was known by name to some few, very few, in the mercantile world.  Nobody, however, had been there, and I suspect no one desired to go there in person, just as an astronomer, I should fancy, would strongly object to being transported into a distant heavenly body, where, parted from his earthly emoluments, he would be bewildered by the view of an unfamiliar heavens.  However, neither heavenly bodies nor astronomers have anything to do with Patusan.  It was Jim who went there.  I only meant you to understand that had Stein arranged to send him into a star of the fifth magnitude the change could not have been greater.  He left his earthly failings behind him and what sort of reputation he had, and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon.  Entirely new, entirely remarkable.  And he got hold of them in a remarkable way.

’Stein was the man who knew more about Patusan than anybody else.  More than was known in the government circles I suspect.  I have no doubt he had been there, either in his butterfly-hunting days or later on, when he tried in his incorrigible way to season with a pinch of romance the fattening dishes of his commercial kitchen.  There were very few places in the Archipelago he had not seen in the original dusk of their being, before light (and even electric light) had been carried into them for the sake of better morality and—­and—­well—­the greater profit, too.  It was at breakfast of the morning following our talk about Jim that he mentioned the place, after I had quoted poor Brierly’s remark:  “Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there.”  He looked up at me with interested attention, as though I had been a rare insect.  “This could be done, too,” he remarked, sipping his coffee.  “Bury him in some sort,” I explained.  “One doesn’t like to do it of course, but it would be the best thing, seeing what he is.”  “Yes; he is young,” Stein mused.  “The youngest human being now in existence,” I affirmed.  “Schon.  There’s Patusan,” he went on in the same tone. . . .  “And the woman is dead now,” he added incomprehensibly.

’Of course I don’t know that story; I can only guess that once before Patusan had been used as a grave for some sin, transgression, or misfortune.  It is impossible to suspect Stein.  The only woman that had ever existed for him was the Malay girl he called “My wife the princess,” or, more rarely, in moments of expansion, “the mother of my Emma.”  Who was the woman he had mentioned in connection with Patusan I can’t say; but from his allusions I understand she had been an educated and very good-looking Dutch-Malay girl, with a tragic or perhaps only a pitiful history, whose most painful part no doubt was her marriage with a Malacca Portuguese