Sunset, like the wings of a giant golden moth, quivered in the sky and beat gently against the city, stirring from the earth a film of dust that, illuminated by the lingering glow, hung in the air like yellow pollen. Gold was the sovereign tone of every quarter. In the Shwe Dagon numerous Buddhas smiled at the vain splendor of goldleaf and gold-fretted spires; Victoria Lake, on whose banks social Rangoon had gathered to cool after a stifling day, lay like a gold-chased platter; along the riverfront, dull brown water, shot with glinting ripples, swirled and eddied beneath quayside godowns, and in the adjacent bazaars a concourse of native life moved against a background of gold-lettered signs and gilt-painted shops.

This golden dust-haze enveloped the bungalow in Prome Road where Dana Charteris was packing a suitcase; floated through the window of a house near the waterfront where Hsien Sgam sat talking to another Oriental; irradiated the interior of the tramcar that carried Tambusami toward the commercial town; and glowed in a luminous cloud about a veranda of the Strand Hotel where Trent, lounging in a wicker chair, engaged in an occupation that might have cast some slight reflection upon the morale of the British Army.

Immediately after reaching the hotel from the steamer he had inquired about the train schedule, and was informed that to make the best connection at Mandalay for Myitkyina he should leave Rangoon on the noon train, reaching Mandalay at nightfall. From there, he was told, Myitkyina was a matter of twenty-four hours. Trent decided to remain in Rangoon until the next day; for he intended to explore the mysteries of the House of the Golden Joss. Having settled the time for his departure, he gave himself over to an inspection of the city. After tiffin he visited the bazaars, purchased a small leather-bound volume by Shway YoË at a shop in Merchant Street, and now sat on the veranda of the Strand, waiting for Tambusami, whom he had not seen since he came ashore.

It was growing too dark to read, and he slipped the book into a pocket of his silk suit, transferring his attention to the variety of head-dresses that passed in the roadway. Pith helmets, felt Bangkok hats, Chinese skull-caps, loosely-knotted Burmese scarfs, and turbans of all sizes.... Darkness fell and street-lamps glowed into being before he abandoned his watch and went to dinner.

After the meal he returned to the veranda—and met a smiling, bespectacled Tambusami in the doorway.

"Burra salaam, O Presence!" was the native's greeting. "Was the Presence beginning to believe I had been swallowed up by this strange city?"

Trent drew him into one corner and sat down.

"Well?"—as he lighted his pipe.

Tambusami, after a wary look about him, made a gesture.

"I did as you directed, Presence," he began. "I waited until that filthy Mohammedan louse left the ship, and followed. Louse indeed, for he went to a place of stinks that would poison other than vermin! Fish and onions, Presence! He put such corruption into his belly! From there he walked about several streets that are as filthy as that stink-hole of a restaurant, then took a tramcar. He sat in front, I in the rear.

"At the pagoda, the great pagoda"—meaning, Trent knew, the Shwe Dagon—"he got off and defiled it with his presence. He went up to the top, where there is a great bell, Presence, and many images of the Lord Gaudama. Even the dogs in the stalls snarled at him! After he had tainted the upper platform with his presence, he returned to the bazaars below. There at the foot of the steps he waited, while I hid in the shadows above. Finally the one for whom he waited came—a Memsahib."

Trent's lips pressed into a thin line.

"A Memsahib," Tambusami went on. "She wore a veil and I could not see her face. She was dressed in white."

"Did you notice the color of her hair?" Trent cut in.

"No, Presence; the veil was heavy. But I saw a bracelet—oh, a very beautiful bracelet! It was gold and had a cobra upon it—a king-cobra, with hood lifted!"

If this announcement was startling to Trent, he succeeded quite well in hiding it. He smoked on in silence.

"I could not hear what they said," continued the native. "They left almost immediately. She had a gharry waiting in the road. I did not follow long. Am I a dog that I should run behind until my tongue drips and I drop dead of heat? When they disappeared, I got on a tramcar. Now I am here!"

Trent looked at him closely. "You heard the Memsahib's voice?"

"Yes, Presence, but not—"

"It wasn't familiar?"

"Nay!"

Trent's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.

"You should have followed," was his comment, after a moment. "Since you didn't, the only thing for you to do is to return to the restaurant. He may go back to-night."

Tambusami ceased smiling. "That stink-hole of fish and onions!" he exclaimed indignantly; then: "Very well—I am a faithful servant of the Presence!"

Whereupon he salaamed and departed, quickly losing himself among the many turbans in the street.

Trent continued to drum on the arm of his chair. The woman of the cobra-bracelet! And in Rangoon! That meant she was a passenger on the Manchester. But no, not necessarily. Damn the illusiveness of her! Who was she, anyway? Sarojini Nanjee? In that event it was likely Tambusami would have recognized her. Perhaps he did, was his next and disconcerting thought; perhaps the affair on shipboard was a hoax, a foil for something deeper; perhaps Tambusami knew this and his story of the meeting at the pagoda was false. It was queer, he admitted, that Tambusami didn't hear anything that passed between the two.... But at least, he told himself, he was free of his perpetual shadow for several hours; he had not despatched Tambusami to the restaurant because he believed Guru Singh would return (if he had ever been there), but because he did not wish his own actions under surveillance that evening.

Still puzzling over Tambusami's report, he left the hotel. An involuntary glance behind showed him no familiar face, and he hailed a cab. (When the temperature is at ninety degrees one does not walk for pleasure.) The gharry-wallah knew no English—which was not unusual—and to make himself understood Trent had to solicit the aid of a Sikh policeman.

Hsien Sgam was the pivot of his thoughts as he rolled northward along Strand Road. His interest in the invited interview was almost wholly personal, for he felt that the Mongol's "revolution" was more a matter of vain dreaming than reality. Such a movement, unless backed by some power, could hardly be regarded as formidable. Yet the rebellion in South China in nineteen-eleven, which brought about the presidency of Yuan Shih-Kai, must have seemed puny in its first stages. Although insurrection in Mongolia against China would scarcely affect the interests of his Government, it was at least worthy of investigation. There was, as always, the possibility of infection—for the smell of powder, especially in Eastern lands, is dangerous. It might spread into Szechuan and Yunnan (there were already ugly symptoms along the banks of Mother Yangtze) or into Tibet, thus bringing it to the back door of Burma. And that "back door," he knew, was no small consideration. Since the occupation of Hkamti Long, the Kachin tribes of the Burmese hinterland needed but slight pretext to inaugurate trouble. True, they could be easily put down—"easily," he reflected grimly, meaning troops; death for hundreds in fever-haunted swamps and in jungles where lurked innumerable dangers. That was "black" country, up there between India, Tibet and China; wild people in a wild setting—dwarf Nungs, Black Marus and Lisus. Yes, they could be quelled, these primitive people, for a price. All of which, he concluded, was pure romancing.

He was in a street that ran parallel with the river, a highway where Burmans, Chinese, Hindus, Madrasees, Tamils, Cingaleese and Chittagonians mingled in a colorful, reeking democracy unknown to caste-bound Indian cities. On one side, beyond quays and warehouses, was the river, its dim expanse flecked with lamps on sampans, junks and lighters, here and there the white silhouette of an ocean-going vessel blotting the gloom; on the other, groups of colors that, like parrots, would seem gaudy and flamboyant in other than their natural setting shifted upon a background of low, swarth buildings and shops decorated with imitation lacquer and goldleaf.

Here was Burma, sleepy gilded Burma, with its quaint kyoungs and pagodas, its air of vain decay. A siren of the East whose charms are fast being supplanted by the craft of her less attractive, but more industrious, sisters. They laughed and smoked, these light-hearted Burmans, while Chinos and Hindus moved with stealthy intent among them—grim, silent fellows, as quick in commerce as the Burmans are lazy and indolent. This was not the quiet of India or China, a boding hush, but an atmosphere of somnolence and perfect content.

Thus Trent was musing when he came at length to the House of the Golden Joss. It was a yellow brick building in a flagged enclosure, its upcurling eaves and series of roofs, to Trent, strikingly like the fantastic headgear of a lemon-faced mandarin who looked out with satisfaction upon the marine highway by which the merchandise of his sons floated into port. Curious eyes followed the Englishman as he paid the gharry-wallah and moved up the low stair to the entrance. There, after a pause, he passed between twin stone dragons; passed from the twentieth century, so it seemed, into a perished dynasty.

He found himself in a vast court where the smoke from joss-sticks hung in clearly defined layers upon the atmosphere. The walls were lacquered with red and gold; and black-enameled pillars, inscribed with ideographs, were joined to the beams by filagree dragons. Orange-colored scrolls, red and gold paper-prayers and blue pottery reflected bizarre splashes upon glazed floors. The draperies were crimson; great red lanterns, hanging from the ceiling like captive moons, added to the scarlet effect. Worshippers of all races and colors knelt before the altar and numerous small shrines, and the murmur of many voices in twice as many tongues hummed in the great red temple.

Trent's interest was instantly claimed by the blue pottery—tall vases, thin of neck and bellying out as they curved toward rounded bases and black pedestals. Red walls reflected upon their shiny surfaces. These vases were relics of China's Imperialists, Trent knew, brought from Honan or Chili—and his collector's soul flamed. Nor did he fail to observe the porcelain dragons or the intricate filigree work that adorned the beams. From these treasures he tore himself and gave his attention to the people. Mongoloid features, Aryan and Malay. No familiar face among them.

He pursued a corridor that led from the main court and completely circled the building—a dim passageway with many curtained recesses off from it. At one corner was a restaurant. He could imagine from the smells the sort of food served within, and he hurried on, returning to the temple where incense banished the less enticing odors.

At a light touch on his arm he turned. A gray-clad priest stood at his side—an emaciated Buddhist.

"Your name is Tavernake, thakin?" he asked in English; then, as Trent nodded, added: "Come with me."

Trent was led back along the dim corridor, past the restaurant with its pungent smells, to a curtained room in the rear. It was evidently a bedroom, for there was the customary charpoy, or bed. Its walls were vermilion; vermilion portiÈres hung in the doorway, and a heavy vermilion curtain defied any air to enter through the one window. It was close, stifling. The lantern swinging from the ceiling seemed a fiery ball that radiated heat.

"His Excellency Hsien Sgam will be here presently," announced the monk; and Trent did not fail to notice the title. "He begs you to accept the humble comforts of our hospitality until he arrives."

Trent's eyes followed the priest. As the vermilion portiÈres fell together behind him, rippling gently, like red heat-waves, the last draught of air seemed banished; the room became oppressive, as though the lid of hades had been shut, and the odors from the nearby restaurant did not improve the atmosphere.

Trent dropped on the edge of the charpoy, fanning himself with his hat and inspecting the room with mild curiosity. He leaned over and drew aside the window-curtain. A warm current of air breathed upon his face. Beyond the rectangle was darkness—the back of the flagged enclosure, he surmised. A faint drone of voices was borne through the quiet—worshippers in the temple-court. Footsteps padded softly in the corridor; drew nearer; passed.... Five minutes....

Why the devil was Hsien Sgam keeping him waiting, and in this infernally hot room, he wondered?

Growing impatient, he rose and paced the floor, not ceasing to fan himself. Sweat streamed into his eyes, rolled down his body and moistened his undergarments. His scalp burned and needled with heat. After a moment he resumed his seat, staring at the motionless vermilion portiÈres. Still the hum of voices from the temple; it went on with maddening persistence.

"Good God!" he thought, as he mopped his face. "Such heat!"

He glanced at his wrist-watch. He had been waiting ten minutes. Confound Hsien Sgam and his revolution!

Suddenly his eyes were invaded by an alert gleam. That was the only change in his expression. He let his gaze rove about the room and continued the restless fanning. But there was something in his attitude, in the poise of his head, that likened him to a stag suddenly aware of an alien presence.

He had seen the vermilion portiÈres move—very slightly.

Casually, he lowered his eyes to the bottom of the curtain. Two inches of gloom separated the hem from the floor, but that was sufficient to show him the toes of a pair of shoes. As he looked, they drew back—but not too far for him to still see them.

He continued to fan himself. Perspiration ran into his eyes and stung them, and he wiped away the moisture with a damp handkerchief. The heat seemed to press down, like a burning cushion, and quench his breath.

The pair of shoes moved closer. Another ripple of the curtains. Then, above the murmur from the temple, he heard a sound in the corridor—a thwack. Came a quick gasp, a low, sobbing intake of breath.

Trent got to his feet, swiftly. As he stood erect, the portiÈres parted suddenly and a body slued into the room. It swung about drunkenly; went to its knees; stretched upon the floor. A revolver clattered beside it. Trent barely had time to see that the body was that of a gray-robed man—a priest, who had fallen face downward and lay still, with an ugly blotch between his shoulders—before another figure slipped through the division of the curtains and thrust forward the muzzle of a revolver.

Trent halted. A flicker of recollection crossed his brain. The man who stood outlined against the vermilion hangings was a native clad in dirty garments; his turban was soiled, his feet bare. As Trent saw the scar running across one cheek and the drooping eyelid, he recognized the snake-charmer who crossed the Bay in the steerage of the Manchester.

The fellow grinned impudently, and the expression was reminiscent of another smile.

"Turn about!" he ordered softly, in English—excellent English for a street juggler, as Trent did not fail to notice. "Don't say a word; don't make a sound!"

Trent's eyes dropped to the body; lifted questioningly.

Again the snake-charmer grinned—that impudent, strangely reminiscent expression.

"Never mind that now!" he said, and his voice, too, slow and quiet, seemed vaguely familiar. "If you want to get out of this place whole, do as I say!"

Trent turned, facing the window. (And the native did not see the smile that traced itself upon his face.) Instantly the Englishman felt a pressure between his shoulders.

"Now, drop out of the window!" came the whispered command from behind.

Trent moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. As he swung over the sill he caught a glimpse of the juggler's grinning face. The sash was not more than four feet from the ground, and he discovered that he was behind the joss-house, in the shadow of a lofty wall. Above were stars; at one side, further along the wall, a gateway where the glow from a lighted street fell within.

"Walk to the gate," was the native's quiet order, as he lowered himself from the window. "Hail a carriage and get in. I'll be directly behind you. Don't look around or say a word; if you do...."

Trent obeyed. He moved slowly, almost carelessly, through the gate and into the street, where a thin stream of Burmans and Chinese flowed toward the joss-house.

It was half a square before he saw a cab; then, in a matter-of-fact way, he motioned to the wallah. As the gharry drew up, the slow, familiar voice at his side spoke to the driver—in Burmese, Trent imagined.

The Englishman stepped into the conveyance, showing no surprise when the juggler got in and sank upon the seat beside him. Nor did he look in the least amazed, as he should have done, when the native's drooping eyelid lifted and winked at him in an outrageously familiar manner. He only smiled—a smile that grew as he commented:

"You're a downy bird, Kerth."

Which was not indiscreet, for one may safely assume, in Rangoon, that his gharry-wallah cannot understand him when he speaks English.

2

"I've instructed the wallah to drive to your hotel by a longer route," Euan Kerth drawled, and Trent wondered how he was ever baffled by such a simple make-up; it was the drooping eyelid, he decided, and the absence of the waxed mustache.

"I want time to talk," Kerth explained. "Also, I'll take this opportunity to return a piece of your property."

One slender hand emerged from under his clothing and extended an object that gleamed softly in the semi-dark, an object that caused the blood to leap into Trent's temples and throb there for a moment of sheer excitement.

For it was the silver-chased piece of coral that had twice been stolen from him.

"Too, I want to tell you," Kerth went on, "that your pretty cobra friend lied to you."

"Sarojini?"

Kerth nodded. "Most gloriously," he emphasized. "Look inside the locket—or whatever it is—and you'll see."

Again Trent felt the blood in his temples. But his hand was calm as he pressed a fingernail under the rim and opened the pendant. He bent low; peered intently. He made no exclamation as he saw the name that was engraved within—but his breathing quickened. He snapped the oval shut and sat with it gripped in his hand. The blood was still beating in his temples.

"As I told you," resumed Kerth, "Gilbert Leroux, the name that's written there, was Chavigny's last alias. Therefore, when Sarojini said he had nothing to do with the Order, she lied. And if she lied once, she's likely to do it again. Fact is, I don't trust her. I have a reason to believe she isn't playing the game just right."

"Yes?" Trent encouraged, while the name in the pendant sang itself in his ears with the roll of the carriage wheels.

"I'll have to be rather personal," was the slow statement; "embarrassingly so, I fear. Nevertheless, it's better that you know I know. Before I left Benares I sent a telegram to a friend, the Commissioner at Jehelumpore—you see, I knew you were stationed there at one time—asking if he knew whether—whether you and Sarojini Nanjee—well—"

He paused. Trent, smiling to himself, said: "Go on."

"When I reached Calcutta I received a letter from him by special post," Kerth continued. "He told me the whole story.... That's all. And for that reason—and because she lied about Chavigny—I believe you should be wary of her. Balked affection is an unruly mount to straddle, and when a woman plans to make a fool of a man because he doesn't pay her any attention, and the man by his wits turns the affair so that she is the fool—well, I'll say only that she's likely to cause trouble, especially if she has a Rajput strain in her blood."

Quiet followed. They rolled on toward the hotel. Trent was the first to speak.

"Just how did you do this?"—with a gesture that conveyed more than the speech.

In the semi-dark, unobserved, Kerth smiled.

"Oh, it was easy enough," he drawled. "I determined to have a look at the instructions you received at Sarojini Nanjee's house, there in Benares. I didn't quite fancy the way she gave in to your request to take me along. When we returned to the hotel, I left you for a few minutes, if you recall. During that time I filled an envelope with blank paper, then went to your room and while we were talking, under the pretense of getting a match from your tunic, I exchanged envelopes."

"And you returned it that night?" Trent put in, with a smile.

"Yes, I was your nocturnal visitor. I left on an express for Calcutta that night. When I got there I haunted the environs of the old mandarin's establishment. The night you called I hid in the court—back of the house and just behind the room where you two were talking.... Oh, it was easy enough," he repeated.

"What about this?" Trent inquired, indicating the pendant.

"I intended to take a look through your cabin, on general principles, the first night out—and I happened along just as your servant and that other fellow staged their shindy outside your state-room. When you went on deck, I seized the opportunity. I found the pendant under the pillow and took it because I wanted to study the design—and—well, for other reasons, too. I didn't discover the Chavigny alias until later."

"I had the captain search the steerage passengers for it," Trent said.

Kerth laughed. "I know you did—and I caused an inoffensive, fangless cobra to go to his Nirvana by hiding the thing in his gullet. I would have spoken to you on shipboard, but I was afraid of hidden eyes."

That explained the theft of the pendant on the Manchester (thus Trent to himself), but who took it the first time, in Benares? Kerth was evidently ignorant of that. Guru Singh was the key to the riddle, and he silently cursed himself for having released him.

"What did you learn about the design?" he pressed on.

"A little," Kerth returned carelessly. "I spent this afternoon at the Bernard Library looking up all sorts of deities. The one on the piece of coral is Janesseron, the Three-eyed God of Thunder—a Tibetan god." Then, after a pause: "There may be some significance in the fact that the symbol of the Order is a Tibetan deity, and then, there may not. I've formed a theory, and unless I'm greatly mistaken, you and I have a neat little sprint before we reach the so-called City of the Falcon. And if this city is where I believe it is, why, we.... But I'm anticipating. Anyway, I haven't the time to pawn off my theories upon you. I simply wished to let you know I wasn't in Bombay, and to return the piece of coral."

Another pause before he ventured:

"I suppose you're not at liberty to tell me how you came into possession of that?"—with a motion of his slim hand toward the pendant.

Trent considered, then replied, "Why, yes." And he told of finding Manlove in the ruined temple at Gaya. When he had finished, Kerth whistled softly.

"So!" he commented. "Chavigny at Gaya—but wait! When did I track him to the native serai in Delhi?" He was silent for a moment. "It was Friday," he resumed, "no, Saturday—I remember now. And what day was Captain Manlove murdered?... Monday—the twentieth? You see, then, that Chavigny would have had time to reach Gaya; but how in flaming Tophet did he get out of Delhi? You remember I told you I found blood-stains in his room at the serai.... Hmm. This is a complication. D'ye suppose Chavigny made a mistake—thought Manlove you? Yet why the deuce should he want to put you out of the way?"

A lengthy space of silence followed. Kerth took up the conversation.

"I haven't the slightest idea why you went to that joss-house to-night; however, I'm glad I followed and"—he smiled—"saved one of the eyes of the empire."

"And I'm rather glad you followed, too"—this from Trent drily. "I sha'n't forget. I went there to meet a...." Followed a short description of Hsien Sgam, the Mongol, and an explanation of Trent's purpose at the House of the Golden Joss. Again, as he finished, Kerth whistled.

"Complication upon complication! D 'ye suppose he's one of the Order? I remember seeing him on the boat. What's his object in attempting to murder you? It's obvious that that was his purpose."

"I can't somehow adjust him with the Order," returned Trent. "He seems above that. He's capable of villainy all right—rather exquisite villainy, I imagine—but I can't associate him with thievery and stolen jewels.... Did you see the face of the fellow who tried to kill me?"

Kerth nodded. "It was the priest who took you to that room. Oh, he was shrewd—or rather, the one who directed him! He had a maxim silencer on the revolver; and if I had been two seconds later, you would have had a steel morsel lodged somewhere between your chest and stomach. I didn't dare waste time to explain there; I was afraid there might be others, and two white men in a heathen prayer-house would have as much chance as a pair of bats in hades!" Kerth glanced ahead. "We'll be at your hotel in a few minutes," he announced, "and your shadow might be there, so I think I'll make my exit now. I'm leaving Rangoon to-morrow noon, as I daresay you are, too. I'll manage somehow to see you at Myitkyina."

He thrust one foot out of the gharry, upon the step, and stood there a moment, the reflection from passing lamps upon his stained features. He was smiling his satanic smile—a rather impudent, careless expression.

"I think I shall pay another visit to the House of the Golden Joss," he said. "What you have told me of this Hsien Sgam interests me in him. Good luck, major!"

With a wave of his hand he swung down and disappeared in the street.

3

When Trent reached the hotel he found Tambusami waiting, with no news of Guru Singh, and the Englishman dismissed the native and went to his room.

As he undressed, the coral pendant lay upon the table before his eyes and he stared at it fascinatedly—stared until the coral blended in with the silver and met his gaze like a monstrous blood-shot orb.... It was hard to believe that Chavigny was at Gaya, that it was the Frenchman who murdered Manlove. Chavigny—Gilbert Leroux. What reason had he to kill Manlove, unless, as he theorized before, the guilty one had been discovered at the bungalow by his victim and in the ensuing struggle the latter was stabbed? Or, as Kerth suggested, he might have mistaken Manlove for Trent, although he could think of no reason why Chavigny should desire his death. And there was Chatterjee—Chatterjee, who died with his secrets.... Chavigny at Gaya! It was incredible. Of course the piece of coral might have been left as false evidence, a blind. But who, other than a member of the Order of the Falcon, would possess the ornament, and would a member of that mysterious band have left the symbol to be found by the police?

Provided Chavigny was the murderer, would it not be natural for him to take steps to recover the pendant, once he discovered its loss? Perhaps it was he who stole it in Benares. But that did not seem likely, in the light of Guru Singh's actions. For why should Chavigny wish to return the oval to him? If....

Then Trent had an inspiration. Was the attempt to kill him at the House of the Golden Joss the work of Chavigny? But what of the Buddhist priest? Chavigny might have bought him; paid him to kill Trent. To go further, it was possible that Chavigny was on the Manchester. Chavigny, an illusive personality, ever at his heels, like his own shadow! There was something intriguing in the thought. And it was plausible—plausible, too, that Chavigny, the notorious Chavigny, was the Falcon, the head of that nebulous order.

Theories, Trent concluded—only theories. He locked the pendant in his trunk and switched off the light.

As he lay in darkness, while lizards chirruped on the floor and the ceiling, a sense of cavernous aloneness enveloped him. It thronged with poignant thoughts. Manlove.... It seemed an age since he stood in the bungalow at Gaya that last morning. So much had happened since then—much to distract. Yet always, niched away in the subconscious, was the hurt, wearing deeper with a bruising force. Trent's nature was sterile for the average seeds of intimate kinships, but now and then—not more than half a dozen times in his life—one fell upon fertile soil. There was something fresh and strong in his association with Manlove. (An essence thrice sweet in the memory.) Their personalities seemed to have entered into a mystic communion of comradeship—a bond not of words nor demonstrations, but feeling. That was why he felt so keenly the bruise of it.

Gone, too, was the woman who had materialized from his world-scroll into intimate palpability, bringing the rich gift of her presence—and leaving the bitter-sweet pangs of her departure. He would find her again, for she had fixed herself in the inner-penetralia of his being. But the period of waiting!... Waiting—love's Gethsemane since the first simian creatures battled in the wildernesses of a still-hot planet.

As he lay there, reflecting upon these things, he experienced an ache, a sensation of isolation, that was reminiscent of his boyhood—of a night when a shadowy being of antiseptics and sick-room odors roused him from sleep with the announcement that the man who had fathered him into existence was no longer in the house.

It dulled only when a sleepy intoxication came over him, and as he surrendered to it he visualized, in a dim, hazy way, a falcon, and it lay in a welter of blood.