"Why not? I do no harm," answered a man's voice, with a rather soft, monotonous foreign accent. Pat knew that the voice belonged to the face. It also had association with long past things which were somehow important. A scene began forming in his tired mind, like bits of an old picture being matched together. A room with tables, and men drinking and smoking; a cleared space; a kind of stage; a girl dancing--slim, lovely, light as a fawn; long red hair waving back and forth--Lyda!--that was her name. Lyda--something. He was at one of the tables, very young, only a boy. And the hairy man sat with him, talking, praising the girl. Markoff! He stopped, remembering, and listened again. "You'd do harm if you dared to," the woman said. "You'd like to kill him." "I tink it will be better for us all if he die," said the man. "Much better! Much safer. But no violence. Let him go--fade away. I tought it would soon be finished wiz him. Zen he open his eyes and look at me. You hear him speak--some word." "Yes, I heard him," the woman answered. "It's the first time he's made a sound--_since_, except a sort of groaning. I'm jolly glad. _We_ don't want him to drop off the hooks. Not _much_!" "You are ver' foolish, Madam. He can give your 'usband and ze ozzers away. It is only me who 'ave nozzing to fear. He do not see me zere. Yet I am witness agains' any ones who treat me wrong." "Pooh!" said the woman. "You're always harping on your power to hurt us. It's nil. The hunt's out for you, Mr. Markoff or Halbin, or whatever you like to be. If we're keeping you for our own sakes because you haven't paid up, anyhow it's your game to lie low. You daren't show your nose outside this door. But for heaven's sake, let's stop arguing. I'm for nothing in that part of the business." "You 'ave all got some plan you try to work behin' my back," growled the man. "I tell you enough times, ze money will come!" "When it comes, you'll get the pearls: if it comes in time. That's the rub!" The word "pearls" was like a key. It unlocked the door of Pat's memory, and impressions flowed in. But they were confused, without beginning or end; and he lay motionless, hoping for more clues. He was conscious that the woman leaned over him. She brought with her a heavy oriental perfume, and he felt a waft of warm breath on his face. "Are you awake?" she asked, speaking slowly. "Do you know what happened to hurt you--eh?" Pat did not show by the quiver of an eyelid that he had heard. "Wen 'e come back to himself, bineby, 'e will remember everything per'aps, an' zen w'ere will you all be?" the man wanted to know. "He never will remember, unless there's someone to give him the tip. People _don't_ remember with concussion," the woman said.