Now it is the custom among those of the sect of Cheng thatthe dying shall present love-gifts to their enemies； and whenhe had set all in order， he gathered his brown canvas coat abouthim， stole from the house， and set out to find Battling Burrows，bearing under the coat his love-gift to Battling. White Blossomhe had no hope of finding. He had heard of Burrows manytimes； and he judged that， now that she was taken from him，never again would he hold those hands or touch that laughinghair. Nor， if he did， could it change things from what theywere. Nothing that was not a dog could live in the face of thissacrilege.
As he came before the house in Pekin Street， where Battlinglived， he murmured gracious prayers. Fortunately， it was anight of thick river mist， and through the enveloping velvetnone could observe or challenge him. The main door was open，as are all doors in this district. He writhed across the step， andthrough to the back room， where again the door yielded to atouch.
Darkness. Darkness and silence， and a sense of frightfulthings. He peered through it. Then he fumbled under hisjacket—found a match—struck it. An inch of candle stoodon the mantel-shelf. He lit it. He looked round. No sign ofBurrows， but... Almost before he looked he knew what awaitedhim. But the sense of finality had kindly stunned him； he couldsuffer nothing more.
On the table lay a dog-whip. In the corner a belt had been flung.
Half across the greasy couch lay White Blossom. A few rags ofclothing were about her pale， slim body； her hair hung limp asher limbs； her eyes were closed. As Cheng drew nearer andsaw the savage red rails that ran across and across the belovedbody， he could not scream—he could not think. He droppedbeside the couch. He laid gentle hands upon her， and calledsoft names. She was warm to the touch. The pulse was still.
Softly， oh， so softly， he bent over the little frame that hadenclosed his friend-spirit， and his light kisses fell all abouther. Then， with the undirected movements of a sleep-walker，he bestowed the rags decently about her， clasped her in strongarms， and crept silently into the night.
From Pekin Street to Pennyfields it is but a turn or two， andagain he passed unobserved as he bore his tired bird back toher nest. He laid her upon the bed， and covered the lily limbswith the blue and yellow silks and strewed upon her a few ofthe trampled flowers. Then， with more kisses and prayers， hecrouched beside her.
So， in the ghastly Limehouse morning， they were found—thedead child， and the Chink， kneeling beside her， with a sharpknife gripped in a vice-like hand， its blade far between his ribs.
Meantime， having vented his wrath on his prodigal daughter，Battling， still cross， had returned to the Blue Lantern， and therehe stayed with a brandy tumbler in his fist， forgetful of anappointment at Premierland， whereby he should have been inthe ring at ten o’clock sharp. For the space of an hour ChuckLightfoot was going blasphemously to and fro in Poplar，seeking Battling and not finding him， and murmuring， intearful tones： “Battling—you dammanblasted Battling—whereare yeh？”
His opponent was in his corner sure enough， but there wasno fight. For Battling lurched from the Blue Lantern to PekinStreet. He lurched into his happy home， and he cursed Lucy， andcalled for her. And finding no matches， he lurched to where heknew the couch should be， and flopped heavily down.
Now it is a peculiarity of the reptile tribe that its membersare impatient of being flopped on without warning. So， whenBattling flopped， eighteen inches of writhing gristle upreareditself on the couch， and got home on him as Bud Tuffit haddone the night before—one to the ear， one to the throat， andanother to the forearm.
Battling went down and out.
And he， too， was found in the morning， with Cheng Huan’slove-gift coiled about his neck.
