At moments like these Steele Kenyon was like ice. Small things might shake or annoy him, but sudden perils seemed to steady his nerves and clarify his thoughts. With one hand plunged into his pocket grasping the Colt, he stood for a moment in the doorway. Upon the floor before him lay the man with the bandaged head; Hong Yo had fallen back into his chair, his breath whistling in his throat, the knife, now dripping with blood, still held in his hand. Farbush was upon his feet, while the girl had broken away from those who held her and was gazing with horror at the stricken man. “Oh, you cowards,” she whispered, “you have murdered him. He was helpless and in your power, and you have murdered him.” Her eyes accusingly sought the face of Hong Yo, then that of Farbush and lastly Kenyon’s. And the burning scorn that was in them was a thing to see. “I did not see you, at first, of course,” she said to Kenyon, and there was a bitterness in her tone that made him wince. “But I might have known that you would be present when such work was going forward.” She gave way a step or two, her eyes filled with horror as he reached out one hand impulsively toward her. He drew in a sharp breath, like a man who is suddenly drenched with cold water; but it steadied him and brought the fact suddenly before him that he was not there to set himself right in her eyes, but to have an accounting with the others. From the instant of his entrance the eyes of Hong Yo and Farbush had never left his face; the three other Chinaman stood stolidly to one side, apparently awaiting orders. Now Hong Yo spoke, breathlessly, but his frail body seemed to sway with fury: “You did not wait then, Mr. Kenyon?” “How could you expect it?” asked the latter coolly. “So much of interest was being transacted here that I could not contain myself. You cannot expect to monopolize all the thrills in this affair while I am concerned in it.” At this there came a short, harsh laugh from Farbush; the man had reseated himself and was gazing at Kenyon with evident admiration. “I think Mr. Kenyon is right,” said he. “As he is partly in for any consequences that might have to be borne, it is only just that he should have a voice in directing things.” “Just so,” said Kenyon, evenly. “And let me remark that I don’t altogether approve of such work as I see. It is coarse.” He looked down at the body with distaste, and then lifted his eyes to the men, once more. “Not that Hong Yo does not do a neat and effectual job,” continued he, in his even tone. “His present performance speaks for itself and plainly shows past experience. But I dislike this smeary sort of business. It is not,” and his white, well-kept hand gestured fastidiously, “a desirable method at all.” There was a slight movement behind him in the hall; the impulse was still forming in his mind to wheel and face what might be a grave danger, when a voice--the voice of Forrester--whispered: “Stand as you are! Don’t move.”