Evans gave an inarticulate cry and rolled over.

Hooker’s jaw dropped.  He stared at the thorn for a moment with dilated eyes.  Then he looked at Evans, who was now crumpled together on the ground, his back bending and straightening spasmodically.  Then he looked through the pillars of the trees and net-work of creeper stems, to where in the dim grey shadow the blue-clad body of the Chinaman was still indistinctly visible.  He thought of the little dashes in the corner of the plan, and in a moment he understood.

“God help me!” he said.  For the thorns were similar to those the Dyaks poison and use in their blowing-tubes.  He understood now what Chang-hi’s assurance of the safety of his treasure meant.  He understood that grin now.

“Evans!” he cried.

But Evans was silent and motionless, save for a horrible spasmodic twitching of his limbs.  A profound silence brooded over the forest.

Then Hooker began to suck furiously at the little pink spot on the ball of his thumb—­sucking for dear life.  Presently he felt a strange aching pain in his arms and shoulders, and his fingers seemed difficult to bend.  Then he knew that sucking was no good.

Abruptly he stopped, and sitting down by the pile of ingots, and resting his chin upon his hands and his elbows upon his knees, stared at the distorted but still quivering body of his companion.  Chang-hi’s grin came into his mind again.  The dull pain spread towards his throat and grew slowly in intensity.  Far above him a faint breeze stirred the greenery, and the white petals of some unknown flower came floating down through the gloom.

  XI.

  THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM.

I set this story down, not expecting it will be believed, but, if possible, to prepare a way of escape for the next victim.  He, perhaps, may profit by my misfortune.  My own case, I know, is hopeless, and I am now in some measure prepared to meet my fate.

My name is Edward George Eden.  I was born at Trentham, in Staffordshire, my father being employed in the gardens there.  I lost my mother when I was three years old, and my father when I was five, my uncle, George Eden, then adopting me as his own son.  He was a single man, self-educated, and well-known in Birmingham as an enterprising journalist; he educated me generously, fired my ambition to succeed in the world, and at his death, which happened four years ago, left me his entire fortune, a matter of about five hundred pounds after all outgoing charges were paid.  I was then eighteen.  He advised me in his will to expend the money in completing my education.  I had already chosen the profession of medicine, and through his posthumous generosity and my good fortune in a scholarship competition, I became a medical student at University College, London.  At the time of the beginning of my story I lodged at 11A University Street in a little upper room, very shabbily furnished and draughty, overlooking the back of Shoolbred’s premises.  I used this little room both to live in and sleep in, because I was anxious to eke out my means to the very last shillings-worth.