fever now, and by the time he decides to live a man's life he won't be able to take anything but quinine. Now, Angell was different. You never met him, did you? God knows what part of the world he came from, because he never spoke of it. He was a pandigo—what you call devil-may-care. Angell enjoyed life—while he lasted. A man must eat if he will drink, though, in a climate like this. I warned him often enough before he died, but he only laughed. There was a woman somewhere or other mixed up with him, too. Just at the finish he wanted me to send her a message, but I couldn't make out what he was saying, though I pretended to write it down to make it easier for him."
"Then she never got the message?" Chester put in. Moniz shrugged his shoulders as he rolled another cigarette.
"Women generally have short memories, which is sometimes a blessing," he replied indifferently. "Mr. Trent," he went on, blowing a cloud of smoke, "I do not speak idly when I say I wish you and I could—ah—understand one another better again."
Chester drummed the ends of his long fingers on the edge of his chair and then sipped from the tumbler with deliberation.
"Indeed!" he said, unconsciously bestowing on the other a cold stare. To have a man make such
