Again and again Richard More made his demand.... And again he offered larger sums. But the old face opposite remained untouched. “Money cannot buy it,” replied the interpreter. It was like a refrain that came and went between the two men, as they faced each other—Richard More urgent, imperious, and strong; the old Chinaman impassive and quiet. His face had not changed from its look of calm endurance. “He will not sell it,” repeated the interpreter. “He only shows it to you at the priest’s command. It is a legacy—from mother to son.” “His son is dead,” said Richard almost harshly. His hand moved to the coffin with an abrupt gesture.... “His son is dead——-” The words held themselves on his lips. He was facing a small door across the room. His hand fell to his side in a gesture of silence. The woman in the doorway stood looking at them with deep, intent gaze. Then she moved toward them—as one who comes in her own right. She spoke a word to the interpreter. He gave quiet assent and waited while she spoke. “She says the coat is of royal lineage,” he translated slowly—“a heritage in her family—since Time.... She is of a dynasty long since deposed. Only the coat remains. No one remembers whence it came—no one reads the dragon marks....” He translated the words as they came from her lips in quaint exact phrasing. “But there is a tradition—” his voice went on—— He listened again—a half-curious flutter of his lids rested on Eleanor More’s face. She had withdrawn to one side and stood looking down at the red-and-black lacquered surface of the coffin.... Her hands were folded quietly. Something within her seemed to hold itself remote. His gaze ran from her to the woman who stood speaking the words that he translated, half under his breath——— “There is a tradition—” he repeated softly, “that the coat is immortal—” They turned to it where it lay beside the coffin. It seemed to shimmer and gather light. “—a tradition that the coat is immortal,” went on the singing voice of the interpreter.... “And one day there shall come from the East—a woman—a woman out of the East.... And her sons shall cherish the coat!” Eleanor More stirred a little. The voice of the interpreter took on a high sing-song note, alternating with the low, gentle phrasing of the Chinese woman’s words.... “Her sons and her sons’ sons—forever.” The voice ceased and the room was very still. From somewhere in the house came a rustling sound that rose and died away.