We gave a start, but the face of the man did not change a particle. Coolly, he repeated the statement: “He was dead when I saw him.” Slowly lighting another of his thin yellow cigarettes, he carefully inhaled the smoke, then added: “Mr. Warren, as you know, spent two years in the heart of my country. In fact, I aided him in some of his arrangements before he started. China, like all other nations, has citizens who are not law-abiding. You may remember that when Mr. Warren did not return at the expected time, it was said he had been killed by outlaws. That, of course, was but a rumor. He returned safely, but his leaving China made some little comment among our people.” He paused, then continued: “You perhaps know the story of Buddha's death—how his body was burnt, the ashes placed in seven boxes and buried in seven places.” As I looked at him, I wondered what he was driving at, but he went on: “Of course, many of the Christian missionaries have said that the story was a myth.” A little smile passed over his lips and, shrugging his shoulders, he continued: “Just what the missionaries tell their converts now I cannot say; but only a few years ago there was discovered not only one of the shrines of Buddha in India, but they found one of the boxes with his ashes. That is now a matter of history.” He glanced at our interested faces, and then said half apologetically: “You, perhaps, wonder what this has to do with Warren. I will tell you. Buddhism is not the religion of China, though there are a good many Buddhists. But tradition has said that in one of our temples far out in the desert, there was a shrine which contained the ashes of the great teacher. Three years ago outlaws ravaged the temple, and among their spoils was the box which our tradition said contained the ashes of the Blessed One.” He paused to light another cigarette, and then came his smooth voice: “To get at the heart of the matter, that box in some manner fell into Warren's hands. I had been in correspondence with him for several months asking him to return it to me. It was of no value to him, and it did mean a good deal to some of my countrymen. He was willing to give it up, and it was for that purpose I came to his house two days ago.” “And you found him dead?” came Carter's question. The dark head bowed, repeating slowly: “I found him dead.” He threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation. “His soul had joined his ancestors.” He paused, then went on rather quickly: “I went up the path as the servant directed me. The library door was open, and after knocking several times I took the liberty of entering. Mr. Warren was lying back of his desk upon the floor; there was a knife protruding from his chest.” “You say that the knife was in his body?” came Carter's startled voice. As if surprised at his tone, the Chinaman studied him coolly. “Yes. You seem surprised.”