As Trent undressed he reflected upon the conversation with Hsien Sgam. He felt that he had looked upon a tragic anomaly in the person of the lame Mongol. Learning had refined his primitive impulses to a higher degree of intellectuality; affliction had warped his vision. Civilization, with him, was a varnish; he did not possess its essence. In a day less modern, when men were not so well equipped to kill one another, he might have risen to formidability; now, Trent felt, he could go no further than that group of idealistic radicals whose careers are meteoric, attaining little political significance and ending in the pathetic justice of a firing squad.
He wondered, too, if the encounter on deck was coincidence, or if Hsien Sgam had deliberately sought him. The Mongol would bear watching, he decided, simply for the reason that his own position was one of insecurity and tampering fingers might send it toppling.
Until he went to sleep the memory of Hsien Sgam haunted him, like the shadow of Timur the Lame cast down through the centuries.
6
Morning and another day of peacock-blue and gold.
After breakfast Trent visited the confined Guru Singh. The native was no more communicative than before but Trent did not press his point, for a better plan than blatant questioning had asserted itself.
When he returned to the deck he found Dana Charteris stretched out in her chair, her slim person a symphony in white.
"Good morning," was her greeting as she motioned him into the chair beside her. "I reached a very definite decision last night."
He smiled. Andantino con languore this time. There was a refreshing draught in the mood that he instantly felt—light, golden wine to the senses. Her eyes were like liquid amber.
"Really?"