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 instant, held by this latest decree of the gods, no one moved.

Then without a sound Mah-li dropped to the dead man’s side. It was Mark Drew who snatched the knife from her hand and left her there on her knees, gazing at the motionless figure on the hearth.

He was at the end of the path at last, that Chinese boy born near Queen Emma’s yard, on the beach at Waikiki. Looking down at him I was conscious of a feeling of pity—until I recalled the knife he had taken from my luggage. Then for the first time I realized all I had escaped. And quicker than the tule-fog lifting from San Francisco all gloomy apprehension vanished from my heart.

Henry Drew’s party broke up in a sort of silent awed confusion. Under the flickering gaslight in the dim old hall Mary Will held out her hand.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good morning,” I answered, pointing Rh