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TTER silence had claimed again the cave of the golden dragon. Gianapolis sat alone in the place, smoking a cigarette, and gazing crookedly at the image on the ivory pedestal. Then, glancing at his wrist-watch, he stood up, and, stepping to the entrance door, was about to open it…

“Ah, so! You go—already?”—

Gianapolis started back as though he had put his foot upon a viper, and turned.

The Eurasian, wearing her yellow, Chinese dress, and with a red poppy in her hair, stood watching him through half-shut eyes, slowly waving her little fan before her face. Gianapolis attempted the radiant smile, but its brilliancy was somewhat forced tonight.

“Yes, I must be off,” he said hurriedly; “I have to see someone—a future client, I think!”

“A future client—yes!”—the long black eyes were closed almost entirely now. “Who is it—this future client, that you have to see?”

“My dear Mahâra! How odd of you to ask that”…

“It is odd of me?—so!…It is odd of me