The Pagan Madonna. Harold MacGrath

infernal ingenuity of his master, Beelzebub. Or was he just trying Anthony Cleigh’s nerves to see whether they were sound or raw?

      “But the beads!” he said.

      “I’m sorry. Simply Morrissy ran amuck.”

      “I am willing to pay half as much again.”

      “You leave that to me—at the original price. No hold-up. Prices fixed, as the French say. Those beads will be on board here to-morrow. But why the devil do you carry that rug abroad?”

      “To look at.”

      “Mad as a hatter!” Cunningham picked up his oilskin and sou’wester. “Hang it, Cleigh, I’ve a notion to have a try at that rug just for the sport of it!”

      “If you want to bump into Dodge,” replied the millionaire, dryly, “try it.”

      “Oh, it will be the whole thing—the yacht—when I start action! Devil take the weather!”

      “How the deuce did the beads happen to turn up here in Shanghai?”

      “Morrissy brought them east from Naples. 36 That’s why his work to-night puzzles me. All those weeks to play the crook in, and then to make a play for it when he knew he could not put it over! Brain storm—and when he comes to he’ll probably be sorry. Well, keep your eye on the yacht.” Cunningham shouldered into his oilskin. “To-morrow at the Astor, between three and five. By George, what a ripping idea—to steal the yacht! I’m mad as a hatter, too. Good-night, Cleigh.” And laughing, Cunningham went twisting up the companionway, into the rain and the dark.

      Cleigh stood perfectly still until the laughter became an echo and the echo a memory.