He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. She was like an angel with one wing. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. She became as The Tigress, a free thing. They will say that it was murder. He understood. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. ’ Then she whisked from the room, hearing Lucilla utter a delighted squeal as she closed the door behind her.
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