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probing him, they were just fixed on Peter Marlowe, and even the King winced.
    Grey walked, the length of the hut, taking his time, until he stood over Peter Marlowe. He took his eyes off Peter Marlowe and stared at the eggs for a long moment. Then he glanced at the King and back to Peter Marlowe.
    “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Marlowe?”
    Peter Marlowe’s fingers took out his cigarette box and put a little tobacco in a slip of rattan grass. He rolled a funnel-cigarette and carried it to his lips. The length of his pause was a slap in Grey’s face. “Oh, I don’t know, old boy,” he said softly. “An Englishman’s at home wherever he is, don’t you think?”
    “Where’s your armband?”
    “In my belt.”
    “It’s supposed to be on your arm. Those are orders.”
    “They’re Jap orders. I don’t like Jap orders,” said Peter Marlowe.
    “They are also camp orders,” Grey said.
    Their voices were quite calm and only a trifle irritated to American ears, but Grey knew and Peter Marlowe knew. And there was a sudden declaration of war between them. Peter Marlowe hated the Japanese and Grey represented the Japanese to him, for Grey enforced camp orders which were also Japanese orders. Relentlessly. Between them there was the deeper hate, the inbred hate of class. Peter Marlowe knew that Grey despised him for his birth and his accent, what Grey wanted beyond all things and could never have.
    “Put it on!” Grey was within his right to order it.
    Peter Marlowe shrugged and pulled out the band and slipped it about his left elbow. On the band was his rank. Flight Lieutenant, RAF.
    The King’s eyes widened. Jesus, an officer, he thought, and I was going to ask him to —
    “So sorry to interrupt your lunch,” Grey was saying. “But it seems that someone has lost something.”
    “Lost something?” Jesus Christ, the King almost shouted. The Ronson! Oh my God, his fear screamed. Get rid of the goddam lighter!
    “What’s the matter, Corporal,” Grey said narrowly, noticing the sweat which pearled the King’s face.
    “It’s hot, isn’t it?” the King said limply. He could feel his starched shirt wilting from the sweat. He knew he had been framed. And he knew that Grey was playing with him. He wondered quickly if he dared to make a run for it, but Peter Marlowe was between him and the window and Grey could easily catch him. And to run would be to admit guilt.
    He saw Grey say something and he was poised between life and death. “What did you say, sir?” and the “sir” was not an insult, for the King was staring at Grey incredulously.
    “I said that Colonel Sellars has reported the theft of a gold ring!” Grey repeated balefully.
    For a moment the King felt lightheaded. Not the Ronson at all! Panic for nothing! Just Sellars’ goddam ring. He had sold it three weeks ago for Sellars at at a tidy profit. So Sellars has just reported a theft, has he? Lying son of a bitch. “Gee,” he said, a thread of laughter in his voice, “gee, that’s tough. Stolen. Can you imagine that!”
    “Yes I can,” said Grey harshly. “Can you?”
    The King did not answer. But he wanted to smile. Not the lighter! Safe!
    “Do you know Colonel Sellars?” Grey was asking.
    “Slightly, sir. I’ve played bridge with him, once or twice.” The King was quite calm now.
    “Did he ever show the ring to you?” Grey said relentlessly.
    The King double-checked his memory. Colonel Sellars had shown him the ring twice. Once when he had asked the King to sell it for him, and the second time when he had gone to weigh the ring. “Oh no, sir,” he said innocently. The King knew he was safe. There were no witnesses.
    “You’re sure you never saw it?” Grey said.
    “Oh no, sir.”
    Grey was suddenly sick of the cat-and-mouse game and he was nauseated with hunger for the eggs. He would have done anything, anything for one of them.
    “Have you got a light, Grey, old boy?” Peter Marlowe said. He had not brought