For a moment Ng Ch’u wondered--and shivered slightly at the thought--if Yang Shen-hsiu’s perfectly tailored coat might hold the glimmer of steel. Then he reconsidered. This was New York, and the noon hour, and Forty-second Street, youthful, shrill, but filled with tame, warm conveniences, and safe--sublimely safe. “I hope I see you well, honorable Manchu?” he asked casually, lighting an expensive, gold-tipped cigaret with fingers that were quite steady. “Thank you,” replied Yang Shen-hsiu. “I am in excellent health. And yourself?” “Nothing to complain of.” “And--” purred the Manchu; and, beneath the gentle, gliding accents, the other could sense the hard, unfaltering resolve of hatred emerging from the dim, wiped-over crepuscule of forty years into new, brazen, arrogant freedom--“the--Moon-beam?” “Is the Moon-beam no longer.” “Her spirit has leaped the dragon gate--has rejoined the spirits of her worthy ancestors?” “No, no.” Ng Ch’u gave a little, lopsided laugh. “But the Moon-beam--alas!--has become Madame Full Moon. She has grown exceedingly fat. As fat as a peasant’s round measure of butter. _Ahee! ahoo!_ Age fattens all--age softens all--and everything--” His voice trembled a little, and he repeated, “All and everything!” * * * * * Then, rather anxiously, his head to one side, with a patient and inquiring glance in his eyes, “Does it not, Yang Shen-hsiu?” The latter scratched his cheek delicately with a long, highly polished finger-nail. “Yes,” he said unhurriedly. “Age softens all and everything--except belike--” “So there are exceptions?” came the meek query. “Yes, Ng Ch’u. Three.” A light eddied up in the glittering, hooded eyes. “A sword, a stone, and--ah--a Manchu.” Ng Ch’u dropped his cigaret. He put his fingers together, nervously, tip against tip. “You have recently arrived in America?” he asked after a short silence. He spoke with a sort of bored, indifferent politeness, merely as if to make conversation. But the other looked up sharply. The ghost of a smile curled his thin lips.