At the barber-shop, he took a stool lazily. First, a square napkin dipped in hot water freshened face and palms; next, a few hairs were pulled from his jowl, and the ear-spoon was wielded. Then he composed himself for a head-shave. The razoring begun, he watched a group of gaudily dressed children, shouting and gamboling before the door, and as he watched he fingered a long-stemmed pipe, caressing its ivory mouthpiece with his lips. Of a sudden, through the group of children, to the great brass bowl at the shop entrance, came a figure. Its dress was ragged and dirty, its queue unkempt. Its right hand was thrust in a wide left sleeve, the left hand in the right one. As Chow Loo looked, the right hand was drawn from the sleeve and extended toward him. Between two blood-shot eyes was the black bore of a revolver. Careless of the razor, he sprang up, the keen blade taking him in the scalp. But even as he leaped came the bullet--straight to the mark. A hue and cry arose, there was a great running, and gathering, a medley of questions, a medley of answers, the jostling and the commands of uniformed “foreign devils.” Chow Loo tottered forward, and dropped beside the great brass bowl. And there, gazing fixedly up at a lantern that was swinging gently to and fro above the door, the life of the Collector of Monies went out of him. * * * * * When Yee Wing arrived at Sather, he found Wah Lee lying in a strip of shade behind the dove-cotes. The old man got up at once, relinquished a key, folded a few belongings into a handkerchief and departed down the road to Fruitvale. The Powder-man looked dumbly about him, at the little home, the black-walled magazine, the grassy level surrounding. Upon the green, the dark-red peonies were nodding; across it fared the butterflies. For a long time, he stood. Then, slowly, he went apart and sat down in a place where he could command every approach. Here, hour by hour, he stayed--waiting. Twilight came on. He arose, approached the door of his little home, unlocked it, and entered. A silken garment lay close to the sill. He took it up, smoothing it with a gentle hand. At last, he laid it down. His eye rested upon a photograph that lay among the cups and bowls on the table. He lifted it tenderly, carried it to the chest of drawers and set it upon end. Before it, in a bronze cup of ashes, he put a lighted incense stick. He leaned against the drawer chest, his forehead upon a hand. “Mother of the unborn that were to worship my bones!” he faltered. By now, the twilight had deepened into night. Down the highway leading to Fruitvale, he heard the barking of a dog. He stole to the window and sat down, a revolver upon his knee. The dog quieted. A quarter of an hour passed. Then, from the other side, toward Haywards, a second barking. He stepped outside, keeping close to the house. Behind it, among the dove-cotes, he halted, peering to every side.