The Chinaman was dead. He was
sure of that. And for him there was not a minute to lose.
After all, it was his fate. The game had been played, and he had lost.
There was one thing left undone, one play Conniston would still make,
if he were there. And he, too, would make it. It was no longer
necessary for him to give himself up to McDowell, for Kao was dead, and
Miriam Kirkstone was saved. It was still right and just for him to
fight for his life. But Mary Josephine must know FROM HIM. It was the
last square play he could make.
No one saw him as he made his way through alleys to the outskirts of
the town. A quarter of an hour later he came up the slope to the Shack.
It was lighted, and the curtains were raised to brighten his way up the
hill. Mary Josephine was waiting for him.
Again there came over him the strange and deadly calmness with which he
had met the tragedy of that night. He had tried to wipe the blood from
his face, but it was still there when he entered and faced Mary
Josephine. The wounds made by the razor-like nails of his assailants
were bleeding; he was hatless, his hair was disheveled, and his throat
and a part of his chest were bare where his clothes had been torn away.
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