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was fingering his right hand; on the divan.
He stared at the golden figurine, whose monstrous, sub-human face seemed wise
beyond all emotion; whoever had made it, knew neither love nor hate but only
irony.
    “Look at me, not at that! You catch sprats, you policemen, but the sharks
escape you, because of the laws of evidence, and because you seek peace, not
power. I don’t seek power. I already have it!”
    “And you’re wealthy,” he suggested, not withdrawing his hand when she
raised it to her lap with both hers.
    Triumph stole into her eyes. “Blair, have you ever, even for a moment,
felt the strength of money—the thrill of the strength of money that
obeys you? I have money! Men and women—some of them so important that
they dare not risk discovery—owe me more money than you have ever
dreamed of having. It is secret, unpayable debts that crack the whips of
power. But to you I would not lend. To you I give!”
    “Blair, why do you look at me in that way? Tell me.”
    Suddenly his right hand that she fondled seized her wrist and she checked
a scream, half terrified but half believing what she hoped. She tried to
break his grip, but could not.
    “Chetusingh,” he said, “should have been back before now. What has
happened to him?”
    “How do I know? You hurt me! Do you hear, you hurt me! I didn’t want that
fool in here, so—you savage, let go of my wrist!” But his grip
tightened. She writhed—kicked —and then struck at his face. His
turban fell, revealing his crisp-curled gladiator head.
    “Scream, why don’t you?”
    Venom stole into her eyes. Her right hand moved toward her bosom. Suddenly
she snatched out a six-inch weapon like a bodkin, dagger-handled. “Damn
you?”
    She struck. He caught her right wrist in his left hand—twisted it.
She kicked with her naked feet. He twisted her wrist steadily until she
groaned through set teeth and the loosed weapon thumped to the floor. He held
both wrists in one hand then and leaned on her to prevent her from kicking
his head as he reached down to recover the weapon. When he had it he let go
of her.
    “How many poisons, Wu Tu? Five?” he asked her, but for the moment she had
no breath to answer him. He pressed the point of the knife on the gilded wood
behind the divan; the hollow bodkin-blade yielded a little against a spring
within the golden handle. Through an almost invisible hole in the point of
the blade there oozed a colorless fluid. He sniffed it; and as he did that,
the hand of the Chinese girl in the corridor parted the doorway curtain. He
could see her eyes behind the hand.
    “Send her for help,” he suggested. “She might bring Zaman Ali.”
    Without turning her head—fixedly watching his eyes—Wu Tu
dismissed the girl with a gesture.
    “Damn you, Blair, what do you want?”
    “Truth,” he said. “Tell it. Why are you afraid of Zaman Ali?”
    “I?” She was chafing her right wrist. “You think I fear him—or you?
You shall learn what fear is!”
    Weird, wild music swelled and ceased, as if a door had been suddenly
opened and swiftly closed. Her anger stole away behind new laughter in her
dark eyes.
    “Now you have a very deadly weapon,” she said. “Kill me if you dare, while
you can. What are you waiting for?”
    “For Chetusingh,” he answered. There was a carpet-deadened footfall in the
corridor. Blair rose to his feet. Wu Tu watched him, fascinated. His eyes,
unafraid but alert, were aware of peril, but the dagger in his right hand
seemed to bother him. It was not his type of weapon. Suddenly he raised it
shoulder high and plunged its point into the lacquered table-top between the
jade vase and the golden figurine. He struck so deep that the dagger-handle
scarcely quivered. Then the jangling curtains parted. Zaman Ali strode in.
His were bold eyes, arrogant with triumph. But he looked wary. He was in no
haste. Close, behind him. as he stood thrusting out his stomach, with his