Thirstily Hoag poured another drink and began describing in detail the woman, the youth and wound and how he had cut away the dead tissue. "... seems the poor bugger got shot two or three weeks ago an--"

"Christ Almighty!" Babcott leapt to his feet as everything fell into place, startling Hoag who spilt his drink.

"Are you bonkers?" Hoag spluttered.

"Can you find your way back there?"

"Eh? Well, well yes I suppose so but what--"

"Come on, hurry." Babcott rushed out shouting, "Sergeant of the Guard!"

They were loping down a back alley, Hoag leading, still in his yukata, but now wearing his boots, Babcott close behind, the Sergeant and ten soldiers following, all of them armed. The few pedestrians, some with lanterns, scattered out of the way. Above was a fair moon.

Hurrying faster now. A missed turning.

Hoag cursed, then doubled back, got his bearings and found the half-hidden mouth to the correct alley. On again. Another alley. He stopped, pointed. Twenty yards ahead was the door.

At once the Sergeant and soldiers charged passed him. Two put their backs to the wall on guard, four slammed their shoulders into the door, bursting it off its hinges and they poured through the gap, Hoag and Babcott after them--both carrying borrowed rifles easily, expert in their use, a common skill and a necessity for European civilians in Asia.

Along the pathway. Up the steps. The Sergeant hauled the shoji open. The room was empty. Without hesitation he led the way into the next room and the next. No sign of anyone in any of the five interconnecting rooms or kitchen or little wooden outhouse. Out again into the garden.

"Spread out, lads, Jones and Berk go that way, you two over there, you two that way and you two guard here and for Chrissake keep your 'kin eyes open." They went deeper into the garden in pairs, one guarding the other, the lesson of the first assassin well learned. Into every nook. Around all the perimeter, safety catches off.

Nothing. When the Sergeant came back he was sweating. "Sweet fanny adams, sir! Not a bloody whisper, nothing. You sure this is the right place, sir?"

Hoag pointed to a dark patch on the veranda.

"That's where I operated."

Babcott cursed and looked around. This house was surrounded by others but only roofs showed above the fence and no windows overlooked this way. Nowhere else to hide. "They must have left the moment you did."

Hoag wiped the sweat off his brow, secretly glad that she had slipped away and was not trapped.

After he had left for the bath he had, regretfully, not seen her again. The maid had given him the money and scroll, both neatly wrapped, and the cask and told him her mistress would send a guide for him tomorrow morning and thanked him.

About her brother, now, he was ambivalent. The youth was just a patient, he was a doctor and wanted his work to succeed. "Never occurred to me the youth might have been one of the assassins.

It wouldn't have made any difference, not to the operation. At least now we know his name."

"A thousand oban to a bent button it was false, we don't even know if the youth was her brother. If he was shishi as the scroll said, it's bound to be false and anyway, being devious is an old Japanese custom." Babcott sighed. "I can't be certain either it was the Tokaido devil. Just a hunch. What are his chances?"

"The move wouldn't have helped." Hoag thought a moment, so squat and froglike against the immense height of Babcott, neither of them conscious of the difference. "I checked him just before I left. His pulse was weak but steady, I think I got most of the dead tissue away but..." He shrugged.

"You know how it is: "You pays your money and you takes your chances." I wouldn't bet much money he'll live. But then, who knows, eh? Now, now tell me about the attack, the details."

On the way back Babcott related all that had happened. And about Malcolm Struan. "He worries me, but Angelique's just about the best nurse he could have."

"Jamie said the same. I agree there's nothing like a beautiful young lady in a sickroom.

Malcolm's lost a devilish lot of weight-- and spirit--but he's young and he's always been the strong one in the family, after his mother. He should be all right so long as the stitches hold. I've every confidence in your work, George, though it'll be a long haul for him, poor lad. He's very taken with the girl, isn't he?"

"Yes. And reciprocated. Lucky fellow."

They walked in silence a moment. Hoag said hesitantly, "I, well I presume you know his mother is completely opposed to any form of liaison with the young lady."

"Yes, I've heard that. That creates a problem."

"Then you think Malcolm's serious?"

"Head-over-heels serious. She's quite a girl."

"You know her?"

"Angelique? Not really, not as a patient, not really, though, as said, I've seen her under terrible stress. You?"

Hoag shook his head. "Just at parties, the races, socially. Since she arrived three or four months ago she's been the toast of every ball and rightly. Never as a patient, there's a French doctor in Hong Kong now--imagine that! But I agree she's stunning. Not necessarily an ideal wife for Malcolm, if that's his bent."

"Because she's not English? And not wealthy?"

"Both of those and more. Sorry but I just can't trust the French, bad stock--it's in their makeup. Her father's a perfect example, charming, gallant on the surface and scallywag just below and through and through. Sorry but I wouldn't select his daughter for my son when he's of age."

Babcott wondered if Hoag knew that he was aware of the scandal: while young doctor Hoag was with the East India Company twenty-five odd years ago in Bengal, he had married an Indian girl, against convention and the open advice of his superiors and had consequently been dismissed and sent home in disgrace. They had had a daughter and a son and then she had died--the London cold and fog and damp almost a death sentence to someone of Indian heritage.

People are so strange, Babcott thought. Here's a fine, brave, upstanding Englishman, a great surgeon, with children who are half Indian--so socially not acceptable in England--complaining about Angelique's heritage. How stupid, and even more stupid to hide from the truth.

Yes, but don't you hide from it either. You're twenty-eight, lots of time to get married, but will you ever find a more exciting woman than Angelique anywhere, let alone in Asia where you will spend your working life?

I won't, I know. Fortunately Struan will probably marry her, so that's that. And I will support him, by God! "Perhaps Mrs. Struan is just being protective, like any mother," he said, knowing how important Hoag's influence was with the Struans, "and just opposed to him getting entangled too young. That's understandable. He's tai-pan now and that will take all of his energies. But don't mistake me, I think Angelique is quite a young lady, as courageous and fine a mate as anyone could want--and to do a good job Malcolm will need all the support he can get."

Hoag heard the underlying passion, docketed it and left the matter there, his mind suddenly back in London where his sister and her husband were bringing up his son and daughter, as always hating himself for leaving India, bowing to convention and so killing her, Arjumand the lovely.

I must have been mad to take my darling into those foul winters, dismissed, broke, with no job and having to start all over again. Christ, I should have stayed and battled the Company, eventually my surgical skills would have forced them, forced them to accept me and would have saved us...

The two sentries left on guard saluted as they passed. In the dining room dinner was laid for two. "Scotch or champagne?" Babcott asked, then called out, "Lun!"

"Champers. Shall I?"