From a box of dry herbs, long untouched, the Chinese drew out a handful. There was no time for brewing. Outraged nature demanded instant relief. He dropped them into a bowl, covered them with water, and stirred swiftly. When the stems and leaves were broken up and well mixed, he strained a brown liquid from them and put it to the other’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded, steadying the shaking head. Barrett drank, unquestioning. Instantly the potion worked. Calmed as if by a miracle, made drowsy to a point where speech was impossible, the white man, tortured but a moment before, tipped sleepily into Fong Wu’s arms. The Chinese waited until a full effect was secured, when he lifted his limp patient to the blanket-covered ironing-table. Then he went out for fuel, built a fire, and, humming softly--with no fear of waking the other--sat down to watch the steeping of more herbs. * * * * * What happened next at the square-fronted house was the unexpected. Again there was a sound of approaching footsteps, again someone gained the porch. But this time there was no pausing to ask for admission, there were no weak requests for aid. A swift hand felt for the knob and found it; a strong arm pushed at the unlocked door. And through it, bareheaded, with burning eyes and blanched cheeks, her heavy riding-whip dangling by a thong from her wrist, came the wife of Anthony Barrett. Just across the sill she halted and swept the dim room. A moment, and the burning eyes fell upon the freighted ironing-table. She gave a piercing cry. Fong Wu neither spoke nor moved. After the first outburst, she was quiet--the quiet that is deliberative, threatening. Then she slowly closed her fingers about the whip butt. Fixing her gaze in passionate anger upon him, she advanced a few steps. “_So it was you_,” she said, and her voice was hollow. To that he made no sign, and even his colourless face told nothing. She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath. “You _dog_ of a Chinaman!” she said at last, and struck her riding-skirt. Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed out the figure on the ironing-table. She sprang to her husband’s side and bent over him. Presently she began to murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were tears on her lashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in whispers. “Was I wrong?” she demanded brokenly. “I _must_ have been. He’s not had it; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faint colour. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!” A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu’s lips. He picked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly upon it, letting the whip fall. “Thank God! thank God!” she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face in her arms.