Cleves, sunburnt and vigorous, looked older, somehow—far less boyish—and he seemed more silent than when, nearly seven months before, he had been assigned to the case of Tressa Norne. Recklow, Selden and Benton greeted them warmly; to each in turn Tressa gave her narrow, sun-tanned hand. Recklow led her to a seat. A servant came with iced fruit juice and little cakes and cigarettes. Conversation, aimless and general, fulfilling formalities, gradually ceased. A full June moon stared through the open windows—searching for the traditional bride, perhaps—and its light silvered a pale and lovely figure that might possibly have passed for the pretty ghost of a bride, but not for any girl who had married because she was loved. Recklow broke the momentary silence, bluntly: “Have you anything to report, Cleves?” The young fellow hesitated: “My wife has, I believe.” The others turned to her. She seemed, for a moment, to shrink back in her chair, and, as her eyes involuntarily sought her husband, there was in them a vague and troubled appeal. Cleves said in a sombre voice: “I need scarcely remind you how deeply distasteful this entire and accursed business is to my wife. But she is going to see it through, whatever the cost. And we four men understand something of what it has cost her—is costing her—in violence to her every instinct.” “We honour her the more,” said Recklow quietly. “We couldn’t honour her too much,” said Cleves. A slight colour came into Tressa’s face; she bent her head, but Recklow saw her eyes steal sideways toward her husband. Still bowed a little in her chair, she seemed to reflect for a while concerning what she had to say; then, looking up at John Recklow: “I saw Sanang.” “Good heavens! Where?” he demanded. “I—don’t—know.” Cleves, flushing with embarrassment, explained: “She saw him clairvoyantly. She was lying in the hammock. You remember I had a trained nurse for her after—what happened in Orchid Lodge.” Tressa looked miserably at Recklow,—dumbly, for a moment. Then her lips unclosed. “I saw Prince Sanang,” she repeated. “He was near the sea. There were rocks—cottages on cliffs—and very brilliant flowers in tiny, pocket-like gardens. “Sanang was walking on the cliffs with another man. There were forests, inland.” “Do you know who the other man was?” asked Recklow gently. “Yes. He was one of the Eight. I recognised him. When I was a girl he came once to the Temple of Yian, all alone, and spread his shroud on the pink marble steps. And we temple girls mocked him and threw stemless roses on the shroud, telling him they were human heads with which to grease his toug.” She became excited and sat up straighter in her chair, and her strange little laughter rippled like a rill among pebbles.