Promise me one thing before I leave you. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. ’ ‘Oh, have you?’ grunted Gerald, surprising in himself a surge of some odd emotion at these words. ” She said and began to pace the hard dirt. Indeed I must. But for him——” Something in her sister’s tone startled Anna. Her eyes were wide and bright. . 1.
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