He went on to give particulars of that interview. She seemed more than ordinarily interested. It was rather as though she were eager for all he could tell her. The light of sympathy was in her eyes. She sat on one of those hard, straight-backed chairs which are to be found in London drawing-rooms, and are designed to discourage lengthy visits, her hands clasping her crossed knees, as step by step, concealing nothing, exaggerating nothing, omitting nothing--except, perhaps, his own foresight and resourcefulness--Talham took her through the act of his “just piracy,” as he described it. He went on to tell the full story of the Emperor’s tomb. When he had finished, there was a pause. Then she said gently: “I understand, Captain Talham, and I appreciate your confidence. I am glad you have told me, because Mr. de Costa himself sent me a version last night which was not as complimentary to yourself as you have made it.” She frowned a little as at some unpleasant memory. De Costa had threatened her--she did not tell him this. Now, in a panic, she realised that the information for which the old man had asked and which she had not at the moment possessed, was now hers! “Why, oh why, have you come?” she asked. “You are entitled to know that,” said Talham. “I must hurry forward all my arrangements and go back to China. I cannot go back until I know one thing. I cannot wait a day,” he said, vehemently, “with one doubt in my mind. Miss Yale----” He leant forward, his hands tightly clasped, his face tense and drawn, a new Talham, and a Talham she had never seen before--the strong, clean soul of the man shone in his face. “I want a partner,” he said. “I want--you!” He jerked the last word. She rose slowly, and looked down at him still in the same attitude in which he had made his plea--and a look of pity and something else came over her face. “I am sorry, Captain Talham,” she said in a low voice. “I cannot agree, though I recognise how great an honour you have done me.” He got up and drew a long breath. “You cannot agree,” he repeated. She did not trust herself to speak, but shook her head slowly. Then a pause--one of those seemingly interminable pauses so trying to the nerves. Neither of the two spoke. Talham’s eyes were on the floor; hers, filled with pity, were on his face. It seemed that five minutes passed like this, though, as a matter of fact, the period was less. Then Talham said, “Oh!” That was all he said. It was not an “Oh” of pain, or an “Oh” of surprise, or “Oh” of indifference; it was just “Oh!” When Talham left the house that memorable morning to return to the hotel after his fantastic and fruitless quest, Yvonne Yale sat for quite a long time in the little drawing-room.