It was in a sense a dinner of celebration at Ballaston Hall in which these four men were concerned, although, with the exception of one guest, it was a family party. At the head of the table sat Sir Bertram; thin, long and hard-jawed, with brilliant dark eyes, almost black, lips and mouth sometimes cruel, sometimes humorous, a famous spendthrift, an occasional libertine, but without a doubt a great sportsman. On his left, Gregory, an almost startling reproduction of his father, but with uncertainties in his face and expression which time as yet had not moulded. Next to him, his uncle, Henry Ballaston; a smaller man, stiff, cold, courtly and formal in speech and manner, with greater capacities for kindliness but entirely devoid of that humorous twitch to the mouth. He wore old-fashioned side whiskers. His dress waistcoat showed less than the usual amount of shirt front, and his tie was almost a stock. On the opposite side of the table sat Mr. Borroughes, the agent to the estates; a mixture of sportsman, man of affairs and sycophant, never altogether at ease with his host and, in consequence, rather overdoing the assumption of such a state. Below the little party was a vast expanse of polished but empty mahogany, for dinner had been served in the great banquetting hall where places had often been laid in the past for as many as sixty guests.

Rawson, the butler, ponderous yet light-footed, emerged from the shadows of the apartment, carrying a second decanter of the port which they had been drinking. He placed it reverently before Sir Bertram, who lifted it first to the light, poured a little into his glass, sipped it and then passed the decanter on to his son.

“Excellent!” he pronounced. “Almost as good a bottle as the first. A wonderful bin! Henry—my dear Henry!”

His brother handed the decanter across the table to Borroughes.

“You are aware, Bertram,” he said, “that two glasses of wine after dinner are all I care for.”

His speech was rather like that of an old-fashioned lawyer—prim, a little clipped, extraordinarily precise. Sir Bertram sighed.

“I wonder whether there is anything in the world,” he murmured, “which would ever induce Henry to diverge from a habit?”

“It is less prejudice than a partiality,” the latter pronounced. “Two glasses I enjoy. More, so far as I am concerned, bring me no pleasure. I agree with you, Bertram, that it is an excellent bin. I always enjoy this wine, and I have been happier than usual in drinking it this evening, on account of our pleasure in welcoming Gregory home again.”

“Tell me about our new tenants at the Great House,” Gregory enquired presently, addressing Borroughes.

“Very desirable—very desirable indeed,” the latter replied, delighted at the chance of entering into the conversation. “Mr. Endacott, curiously enough——”

“Endacott!” Gregory interrupted. “Did you say Endacott?”

Gregory, whose first enquiry had been a casual one, had set down the glass which he had been in the act of raising to his lips and was staring at Borroughes incredulously; staring at him and yet through him, convinced in his heart, suddenly realising what had happened.

“Yes, Ralph Endacott,” Borroughes continued. “Curiously enough, he belongs to an old Norfolk family, although he has lived all his life in China. Madame de Fourgenet, whom every one round here calls ‘Madame’, is his sister. He is a great Oriental scholar, I believe. A famous man at Oxford, in his day. Then there’s his niece—Miss Claire Endacott—very good-looking girl. That’s all the family. They have taken the place just as it stands, furniture and all, for three years.”

“And paying the full rent, too, thank God!” Sir Bertram added. “I meant to have told you, Gregory, but we’ve scarcely had a minute together yet. You met the old chap in China, didn’t you, and of course you travelled home as far as Marseilles with the girl.”

“Mr. Endacott was a partner in the great Eastern firm of Johnson and Company, with branches at Alexandria, Tokio, and at several places in China,” Mr. Borroughes went on. “I made use of his banker’s references, and was given to understand that he was a man of great wealth.”

“He knew to whom the property belonged before he took the house, I suppose?” Gregory enquired.

“Naturally,” the agent replied. “It was his sister who wrote to him about it.”

“Quite a remarkable coincidence your having come across him in China,” Sir Bertram observed, moving the decanter once more towards his son. “I wonder if he knows anything about your new possession, Gregory?”

“He knows more about it,” was the somewhat grim response, “than any other man breathing. His firm, as a matter of fact, bought the twin Image from one of the robbers who held up and looted the train from Pekin.”

“A small world indeed,” Sir Bertram murmured. “Tell us more about your coming into touch with these people Johnson and Company. I am interested.”

Gregory glanced into the shadows. Rawson was out of sight at a huge sideboard only dimly visible at the other end of the room, and the footmen had already departed.

“Well, I’ve told you, haven’t I, the story of my rescue on the river by Wu Ling?” Gregory proceeded. “It seems this fellow is one of the firm and does all the native trading for Johnson and Company. Naturally I called upon him before I sailed and found him in their warehouse—the most astonishing place! I told him of what had happened to poor Hammonde and that only one of the Images had turned up. He listened to my story without a smile or a single word. Then he took me into a sort of holy of holies the firm had—a secret treasure house at the back of the warehouse, filled with a marvellous collection of curios—turned on the electric light—what an amazing anachronism it seemed!—and there, smiling at me, was the other Image we looted from the temple, and which had been stolen from the train—the one they called the Soul.”

“My ethical sense,” Sir Bertram observed, “in the question of ‘meum and tuum’, has always been a little elastic, but did you possibly suggest that he was a buyer of stolen goods?”

“My previous acquaintance with Wu Ling saved me from wasting my breath,” Gregory replied drily. “From what he said, however, I gathered that he did not immediately, at any rate, intend to dispose of the Image.”

“Mr. Endacott mentioned in the course of conversation,” Borroughes put in, “that the business, although it had been immensely prosperous, was being wound up. The Image that you are speaking of, therefore, is certain some time or other to come upon the market.”

Sir Bertram rose to his feet.

“We will have our coffee served in the library,” he suggested. “Then we can pass into Henry’s sanctum and examine our new possession. You haven’t seen it yet, Borroughes, have you?”

“Not yet, Sir Bertram.”

They left the room, crossed a fine tapestry-hung hall, and entered the great library with its arched roof and famous stained-glass window; a room of magnificent proportions. There were bookshelves reaching to the ceiling, and opposite the fireplace a wonderfully carved Jacobean sideboard on which coffee and liqueurs were already arranged. They lingered here for a few minutes. Then, with a brief word of invitation, Sir Bertram led the way to an inner door.

“You don’t mind our invading your sanctum for a minute or two, Henry?” he asked, looking round towards his brother.

“By no means,” was the slightly formal reply. “I was expecting your visit.”

They passed through into a much smaller apartment, furnished with the most complete and unexpected severity. There was a touch even of monasticism in the bare, white stone walls, the high oriel windows and the furniture of austere shape and design. Here, again, were bookcases, containing, however, works of a different order from the calf-bound volumes in the library. There were books on heraldry, on china, on silver, on ancient furniture, books on all the various forms of art, starting from the Renaissance, to the most modern period, and one entire shelf was taken up by manuscript records, each stamped on the outside with the arms of Ballaston. On a pedestal of black oak, standing in the farther corner of the apartment, was the Image of the Body. Henry held a lamp above his head and the four men looked at this new family possession in silence.

“As a specimen of allegorical carving,” Sir Bertram mused, “it is a marvellous piece of work. One could conceive that this might be the countenance of a man, even of a god, from whom every element of spirituality was entirely absent.”

“A piece of work of great constructive merit, I have no doubt,” Henry Ballaston observed. “As a subject for daily contemplation, I find it displeasing.”

“Most people would, I think, agree with you, Henry,” his brother conceded. “All the same we must not forget, the family fortunes being what they are, that, although the expert whom we have had down rather scoffs at the idea of there being jewels concealed inside, he expressed his opinion that the Image as it stands, with as much of its history as one would like to make known, is probably exceedingly valuable.”

“A specimen of your purchases in China, Mr. Gregory?” Borroughes enquired.

“I didn’t buy it; I stole it,” was the young man’s cool reply. “One does that sort of thing over there. I stole two of them. My friend and accomplice had his throat cut, however, and only one of the Images got through to the coast—the wrong one, I am afraid.”

The agent looked doubtfully at his young host. It was a continual source of discomfiture to him that he never knew when a Ballaston was in earnest.

“I give you all warning,” Gregory continued, “that this Image when separated from its companion is a pretty dangerous possession. According to the legend it is supposed to have a debasing and malevolent effect upon its owners.”

“Well, there’s only Henry in this house to be corrupted,” Sir Bertram observed, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “Nothing could make my reputation in the County worse than it is, could it, Borroughes?”

The agent looked uncomfortable. He was a person who laughed a great deal but who was utterly devoid of a sense of humour. Henry Ballaston frowned in troubled fashion.

“Your life is not a careful one, Bertram,” he said, “and you are not exactly a pattern to your neighbours. Actual wrong-doing, however, is a different thing. No man yet has ever found opportunity to say a word against the honour of a Ballaston.”

“That may come,” his brother predicted, stretching out his hand towards the cigarette box. “We can’t go on much longer without money, can we, Borroughes?”

“It is a difficult proposition, Sir Bertram,” the agent replied gravely.

“Swindling to a city millionaire is second nature,” Sir Bertram sighed; “financial acumen, I believe it is called. A county squire, however, finds few opportunities.—Off already, Borroughes?” he added, as the latter approached with outstretched hand.

“If you will excuse me, Sir Bertram. It’s a darkish ride home and I have a sale in Norwich to-morrow and some accounts to look through to-night. Glad to see you back again, Mr. Gregory. Good night, Mr. Ballaston.”

“I will accompany you to the door,” Henry Ballaston announced, rising to his feet. “I may possibly not return,” he added, turning to his brother. “You will naturally have a great deal to say to Gregory.”

The two men left the room together. Gregory took an easy-chair with his back to the Image. His father refilled his glass with liqueur brandy, drew a box of cigarettes to his side and seated himself opposite his son. These were almost their first few minutes alone.

“Well, Gregory, old man, you couldn’t quite bring it off then?” he observed.

“Not quite, sir,” his son acknowledged. “We did our best.”

“No doubt about that. You had a narrow shave of it, as it was.”

“And all for nothing, I am afraid.”

Sir Bertram rose to his feet.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he rejoined. “The man they sent down from Christie’s spent over an hour examining that Image. I’ve never seen a fellow so interested in my life. He had to give it up in the end, but he wasn’t any more satisfied than I am.”

Sir Bertram had wandered off into the other room, lifted the Image from its pedestal and, bringing it back, placed it upon his knee. The lamplight flashed upon its black, polished surface. To Gregory, its expression seemed, if possible, even more vicious than ever.

“Gregory,” his father continued thoughtfully, “you know who told me the story. He was a man absolutely incapable of falsehood, and he knew what he was talking about. He was the greatest man in China in those days. I am as certain as I sit here that either this Image or the other one contains the whole of the treasure of the temple.”

“Why not have this one broken up?” Gregory suggested.

“And risk getting blown to pieces?”

The young man shook his head.

“A bit too thick, that,” he protested. “I have a wonderful amount of faith in the story, but I should think any explosive that was ever put inside there would be a little mouldy by this time.”

“I’m not so sure,” Sir Bertram reflected. “Those priests were always devils at protecting themselves against marauders. Besides, in any case, the thing as it stands is worth something.”

“Let’s sell it then?” Gregory proposed eagerly.

His father’s eyebrows were slightly uplifted.

“Has the old gentleman been exercising his malevolent influence upon you?” he enquired, with a faintly sardonic smile. “Is that why you sent it me home in such a hurry?”

Gregory frowned gloomily.

“I simply know that I detest it,” he declared vigorously.

Sir Bertram’s expression, cynical only at first, suddenly developed humorous qualities.

“One might almost imagine you terrified by the superstition, my ingÉnu son,” he murmured, turning the Image around and gazing into its features. “Gad, you’re ugly, though! Different style, of course. Our vices are, after all, the vices of gentle people. Here we have an eloquent personification of brutality and bestiality. In real life I doubt whether this fellow would even be able to conduct an orgy with distinction.”

“Put the damned thing down, Father,” Gregory begged suddenly. “I lived with it for three weeks and I hate it like hell.”

Sir Bertram strolled into the inner room and replaced the Image upon the pedestal. Then he came back to his son and laid his hand for a moment upon his shoulder.

“Gregory,” he said, “you’re not going to tell me in cold blood that you actually believe in the superstition.”

“Of course I don’t believe, but listen. I wanted the other Image. Johnson and Company wanted mine. I wouldn’t sell—not likely, after all we’d been through. It was no good their naming a price for theirs, because we had no money. Do you know what Wu Ling, the Chinaman who rescued me and who apparently is one of the principals in the firm, suggested?”

“Well?”

“He offered to gamble with me—the winner to have both statues.”

“How like a Chinaman,” Sir Bertram murmured. “It was a good sporting offer, anyway.”

“He got a pack of cards,” Gregory continued. “Well—he won! I was to send this Image back from the steamer. I swear that when I left the warehouse I meant to do so. I had lost fairly, I suppose, and it seemed to me from the first like a debt of honour. I returned on board the ship. Then I looked at the Image and looked at it, and somehow the thing didn’t seem so clear to me, and—damn it, I sent the coolies away and kept it!”

“Anything else?” Sir Bertram asked, after a moment’s pause.

“Yes. You know that this man Endacott’s niece was on board on her way back to England—Madame’s niece, too, I suppose, by-the-by. Lord, what a mess-up!—Dad, we talk about most things pretty nakedly to one another, but we don’t often talk about women.”

“One doesn’t,” his father murmured.

“Listen then,” Gregory went on. “She is young, entirely innocent, entirely adorable. I like her better than any girl I have ever come across in my life. We became great friends. Then we danced at night. You know what that means when you get near the Red Sea, and the Canal, and all the rest of it. Of course you do. We danced every evening, and all the time, down in my stateroom, that Image was leering at me. I began to feel that I was losing control of myself. I tried to keep away from her. She wouldn’t have it. I made an ass of myself once and she forgave me. She thought that she herself had perhaps misunderstood. I was so ashamed of myself that, fortune or no fortune, I tried to throw the damned thing overboard.”

“And what happened?”

“It pitched in an outslung boat and was brought back to me,” Gregory explained grimly. “Afterwards—well, I offended again.”

Sir Bertram sighed.

“I suppose God gave us the instincts,” he murmured, “but the devil has toyed with them since.”

“She scarcely spoke to me again,” Gregory concluded, “except out of her sweetness when we met face to face on the dock at Marseilles. It was because of her I went on to Monte Carlo, instead of coming straight home, and of course I won. I played baccarat at Rome and won again. I brought home more pocket money than I ever had before in my life. But I hate that Image like hell. Now you know everything.”

Sir Bertram moved to the sideboard, helped himself to a whisky and soda, and returned to his place.

“Confidence for confidence,” he said, stretching himself out comfortably. “I’m not going to even comment upon your little confession, Gregory, because I don’t know what sort of a fellow your friend Wu Ling was and I’ve never seen a Chinaman yet I’d trust for five seconds with a pack of cards. I’ve bad news for you, though, I’m afraid. We are pretty nearly broke. We can’t go on more than a few more months.”

“As bad as that!”

“I don’t know how it is,” Sir Bertram continued, “but luck always seems against the gambler who takes the big chances—especially when it really matters. If any man knows the points of a horse, I do. If there’s any amateur understands racing, I do. I bought my yearlings right. I trained with Sam Roscoe, and there’s none better, and the luck of old Harry’s pursued me this year, just as it did last. Up to three days before the race Little June—you remember her—was favourite for the Derby. When you left England you know what I was doing. I wasn’t waiting for starting price. I put on all I could at long odds. I got forty, thirty, twenty, and at eighteen I left off. Then, without any rhyme or reason in the thing, she went lame. She’s done for. She’ll never race again. It isn’t worth telling you the whole story. I’ve finished—haven’t a horse left. And I still owe Roscoe a thousand or two. You know old Mason, the bookmaker—well, I owe him seven thousand. ‘Pay me when you can, Sir Bertram,’ he said, ‘and shake hands on it.’ And I shook hands with him, but, Gregory—God forgive me—I’ve never paid him. The lands bring us in about thirteen thousand, taxes five thousand, interest on the mortgages a little more than the rest. Query—how do we live? God knows!”

There was a short silence. Gregory had thrown away his cigarette and his hands were clenching the arms of his chair. His face was set. The ghost of this threatened horror had risen up between them.

“It means breaking the entail, I suppose?” he muttered at last. “You and I can do it.”

Sir Bertram rose to his feet, fidgeted for a moment upon the hearth-rug, then stooped down and laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder. So far as it was possible for him to show emotion, he was showing it then.

“My lad,” he said, “I am the sixteenth baronet. You would be the seventeenth. Sentiment, but hell all the same, isn’t it? And, mark you, before we can sign the papers, I swear that Henry will shoot us. He’s living in a panic. I feel his eyes upon me wherever I go.”

“Is there any other way out at all?” Gregory asked despairingly.

His father once more disappeared into the inner room and returned carrying the Image.

“Gregory,” he confided, “I believe in the legend. If the jewels aren’t in this one they are in the other.”

There was something in Sir Bertram’s eyes which spoke of enterprise—something definite to be attempted. Gregory responded to it at once.

“I’ll go back to China and have another try if you say so,” he declared.

Sir Bertram glanced round the room as though he feared a listener. His voice, which was always low, became a whisper.

“You needn’t,” he confided. “The Soul is up at the Great House.”