Pedro snatched up in his hands a strand of the long, shimmering hair, and fingered it admiringly.
“She’s through with the earth, this one—killed herself with poison; but she must have had a fine time in the world, in this beautiful body. There was another this evening, at the Hotel Oriente. Zip, boom! Disgusto and I saw her come tumbling out of the air, her brain splashing blood all over the pavement! Do white women sin so terribly? This hair, we’ll sell to the fair ones of Sampolac to catch more game with. This one leave on the sand—and when the tide comes up—
“Where is my price? That ring is worth much, the chain also—and even the dress and shoes. I must have good money, hear you, to close the mouths of the police, if anybody searches this far.”
The creatures, without pausing in their work of hacking off the hair in great streamers, made a muffled retort.
A bulk was projecting itself toward them from one of the hideous huts. It came writhing across the sand; the ghouls, in furious dispute now over the possession of the ring, stepped on its groping, shuddering hands. Too weakened and blinded to move aside, it collapsed next to the body of the girl. One of the spasmodic hands caught and clutched in its hold the red flower that clung to her dress. Then with a long shiver, this creature subsided in the sand.
Pedro stared at it with eyes of horrified apprehension. “My money, quick!” he yelled.
The outlandish group derided him. “Get it from him!” they cried, pointing to the dead man.
Without one backward glance, Pedro fled.