A door had been opened only a few yards from where he stood, and there, framed in the opening, was Lala Huang, her eyes wide with terror and her gaze set upon him across the room.

“You!” she whispered.  “You!”

“Go back!” he cried hoarsely.  “Go back!  Close the door.  You don’t understand—­close the door!”

Her gaze set wildly upon him, Lala staggered forward; stopped dead; looked down at her bare ankle, and then, seeing the thing which had fastened upon her, uttered a piercing shriek which rang throughout the place.

At which moment the floor slid away beneath Durham, and he found himself falling—­falling—­and then battling for life in evil-smelling water, amidst absolute darkness.

Police whistles were skirling around the house of Huang Chow.  As the hidden men came running into the court: 

“You heard the shot?” cried the sergeant in charge.  “I warned him not to go alone.  Don’t waste time on the door.  One man stay on duty there; the rest of you follow me.”

In a few moments, led by the sergeant, the party came dropping heavily through the skylight into the treasure-house of Huang Chow, in which every lamp was now alight.  A trap was open near the foot of the stairs, and from beneath it muffled cries proceeded.  In this direction the sergeant headed.  Craning over the trap: 

“Hallo, Mr. Durham!” he called.  “Mr. Durham!”

“Get a rope and a ladder,” came a faint cry from below.  “I can just touch bottom with my feet and keep my head above water, but the tide’s coming in.  Look to the girl, though, first.  Look to the girl!”

The sergeant turned to where, stretched upon a tiger skin before a half-open door, Lala Huang lay, scantily clothed and white as death.

Upon one of her bare ankles was a discoloured mark.

As the sergeant and another of the men stooped over her a moaning sound drew their attention to the stair, and there, bent and tottering slowly down, was old Huang Chow, his eyes peering through the owl-like glasses vacantly across the room to where his daughter lay.

“My God!” whispered the sergeant, upon one knee beside her.  He looked blankly into the face of the other man.  “She’s dead!”

Two plain-clothes men were busy knotting together tapestries and pieces of rare stuff with which to draw Durham out of the pit; but at these old Huang Chow looked not at all, but gropingly crossed the room, as if he saw imperfectly, or could not believe what he saw.  At last he reached the side of the dead girl, stooped, touched her, laid a trembling yellow hand over her heart, and then stood up again, looking from face to face.

Ignoring the mingled activities about him, he crossed to the open coffin and began to fumble amongst the putrefying mass of bones and webbing which lay therein.  Out from this he presently drew an iron coffer.

Carrying it across the room he opened the lid.  It was full almost to the top with uncut gems of every variety—­diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topaz, amethysts, flashing greenly, redly, whitely.  In handfuls he grasped them and sprinkled them upon the body of the dead girl.