For a moment her brain became addled for, foolishly, she had not considered this problem. "I, I won't need help, there won't be... nothing except the bottles and herbs... and towels.

I can't trust Ah Soh, obviously I can't trust her, or anyone, only you. I won't need help." Her anxiety to begin the treatment and have done with this forever capped all the worries that swirled about her. "Don't worry, I'll bolt my door and... and tell her that I'll sleep late and not to disturb me. I, it should all be over in a few hours, by dawn, yes?"

"God willing, yes, that's what the mama-san told me. I still think you should risk Ah Soh."

"You're not thinking clearly, no, not at all.

You're the only one I can trust. Knock on my door early, like this." She rapped the table thrice, then once. "I'll open it only to you."

Impatiently she untied the silk. Inside were two small, corked bottles and a packet of herbs. "I drink one bottle at once and then ..."

"Mon Dieu, no," he said, wearily interrupted her, his nerves as taut as hers. "You must do everything in the correct order, Angelique. First you put the herbs to infuse in the pot of hot water you've arranged. When that's done drink one bottle, drink it quickly and don't worry if it tastes foul, use the honeyed green tea or a sweet to take away the taste."

"I've some Swiss chocolates Monsieur Erlicher gave me, will those do?"

"Yes of course." He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his hands, his imagination taking him down all kinds of lurid passages. "When the infusion is tepid, say after half an hour, sip half of the brew--it won't taste good either.

Then relax and wait, go to sleep."

"Will there be a reaction, will I feel anything yet?"

"No, I already told you, no! The mama-san said that normally nothing happens until some hours later--it should be like a, a strong stomach cramp."

The more he talked about it the less he liked being involved. What if something goes wrong? Mon Dieu, I hope there's not a second time, he thought queasily and tried to push the bad away--and embarrassment--and be clinical.

"It should just be like a stomach cramp," he said, sweating even more. "That's the beginning, Angelique, a cramp. I'll start again: Drink the first bottle, then sip half the infusion, half of it, remember you must do everything in the correct sequence--relax and try to go to sleep, the more relaxed you are the easier it will be. When the, the cramps begin gulp the last bottle, take some honey or sweet, then sip the last of the infusion--sip it, don't swig it down. The cramps will increase and then, then it should begin to... the mama-san said it would be like a heavy monthly so... so be prepared with a... a towel." Again he used his handkerchief. "It's close in here tonight, isn't it?"

"It's cold and there's no need to be nervous."

She uncorked one of the bottles and smelt the contents. Her nose wrinkled. "Worse than a Parisian street toilet in August."

"You're sure you remember the sequence."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry, I'll..."

A knock on the door startled them. Hastily she scooped up the two bottles and packet of herbs and put them in her bag. "Come in,"

Andr`e said.

Dr. Babcott dwarfed the doorway. "Ah Angelique, the servant told me you were here.

I just popped in on the off chance of seeing you a moment. Evening, Andr`e."

"Evening, Monsieur."

"Ah, Doctor, I'm really all right," she said, a sudden twinge of disquiet under his penetrating gaze. "No need t--"

"Just wanted to take your temperature, count your pulse and see if you needed a sedative.

Always best to check." When she began to protest he added firmly and kindly, "Best to check, Angelique, always safer to check, won't take a minute."

"Come along then." She said good night to Andr`e and led the way down the corridor to her suite.

Ah Soh was waiting in her boudoir. "Ah Soh," Babcott said politely in Cantonese, "please come back when I call you."

"Certainly, Honorable Doctor."

Obediently she left.

"I didn't know you spoke Chinese, George," Angelique said as he sat beside her and began to count her pulse rate.

"That was Cantonese, Chinese don't have one language, Angelique, but hundreds of different languages, though only one form of writing they can all understand. Curious, what?"

How stupid to tell me what I already know, she thought impatiently, wanting to scream at him, Do hurry up! As if I haven't been in Hong Kong, as if Malcolm and everyone else hasn't told me a hundred times--as if I've forgotten you're the cause of all my misfortune.

"I picked it up while I was in Hong Kong," he continued absently, feeling her brow and the pulse in her wrist, noting that her heart was racing and there was the slightest sheen of perspiration on her forehead--nothing to worry about considering her ordeal. "A few words here and there. Spent a couple of years at the General Hospital--we could certainly use such a fine place here." He kept his fingertips lightly on her pulse.

"Chinese doctors believe there are seven levels of heartbeats, or pulses. They say they can sense them probing deeper and deeper. It's their main diagnostic method."

"And what do you hear from my seven hearts?" she asked, impulsively, enjoying the warmth of his healing hands and, in spite of her hatred, wishing she could trust him. She had never felt such hands or the good sensation that seemed to radiate from them to calm her.

"I hear nothing but good health," he said, wondering if there was any truth to the seven pulses theory. In his years in Asia he had witnessed remarkable insights and cures by Chinese doctors --along with an abundance of superstitious nonsense. The world's strange, but people are more strange. He looked back at her. His eyes were grey and very direct and kind. But there were shadows there and she saw them.

"Then, then what troubles you?" she asked, suddenly frightened that he had diagnosed her real condition.

He hesitated then reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of tissue paper. Inside the tissue was her little gold cross. "This is yours, I think."

In violent turmoil she stared at it, her lips dry and not moving though her head had conjured up an immediate denial and shrug that were replaced in the same nauseating instant with: "I, I certainly... lost one like it, are you sure it's mine, where did you find it?"

"Around the neck of the would-be interloper."

"His neck? How... how odd," she heard herself say, watching herself as though she were another person, her voice another person's, forcing herself to be controlled even though she wanted to screech aloud for she knew she was again in the vise--her brain frenzied to concoct a plausible reason.

"Around his neck?"

"Yes, I took it off the body. Thought nothing of it at the time, except that the man was a Catholic convert. Quite by chance, I saw the inscription--it's hardly noticeable." A short nervous laugh. "My eyesight is better than Hoag's. "To Angelique from Mama, 1844."

Her mouth said, "Poor Mama, she died birthing my brother just four years later." She saw her fingers pick up the crucifix and examine it, squinting in the oil light, unable to read the tiny writing clearly--cursing the writing. Then her instinct committed her and she said, "I lost it, or thought I lost it at, at the Tokaido, perhaps at Kanagawa, the night I went to see Malcolm, remember?"

"Oh yes. Bad night, very bad, bad day too." Babcott got up hesitantly. "I, er, I thought you should have it."

"Yes, yes thank you, I'm glad to have it back. So very glad, but please sit down, don't go yet," she said, much as she wanted him to go. "Who was he, that man, and how would he have found it? And where?"

"We'll never know, not now." Babcott watched her. "Did Malcolm tell you we think he was one of the Tokaido murdering devils though neither he nor Phillip were sure?"