“I can stop his game,” Jim said to her once.  “Just say the word.”  And do you know what she answered?  She said—­Jim told me impressively—­that if she had not been sure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage to kill him with her own hands.  “Just fancy that!  The poor devil of a girl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that,” he exclaimed in horror.  It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean rascal but even from herself!  It wasn’t that he pitied her so much, he affirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his conscience, while that life went on.  To leave the house would have appeared a base desertion.  He had understood at last that there was nothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor truth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the verge, I won’t say of insanity, but almost of courage.  Meantime he felt all sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him.  Doramin had sent over twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do nothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live amongst the Bugis as at first.  People of every condition used to call, often in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for his assassination.  He was to be poisoned.  He was to be stabbed in the bath-house.  Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat on the river.  Each of these informants professed himself to be his very good friend.  It was enough—­he told me—­to spoil a fellow’s rest for ever.  Something of the kind was extremely possible—­nay, probable—­but the lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on all around him, on all sides, in the dark.  Nothing more calculated to shake the best of nerve.  Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a great apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones a little plan wherein for one hundred dollars—­or even for eighty; let’s say eighty—­he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle Jim out of the river, all safe.  There was nothing else for it now—­if Jim cared a pin for his life.  What’s eighty dollars?  A trifle.  An insignificant sum.  While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was absolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein’s young friend.  The sight of his abject grimacing was—­Jim told me—­very hard to bear:  he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to and fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to shed tears.  “Your blood be on your own head,” he squeaked at last, and rushed out.  It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in that performance.  Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after the fellow had gone.  He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the bamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening to the rustlings in the torn thatch.  A star suddenly twinkled through