was hard by noon when he let himself into the shop. The first object he sought was his metal pipe. Two puffs, and the craving was satisfied. He took up his counting rack and slithered the buttons back and forth. He had made three sales at the Astor and two at the Palace, which was fair business, considering the times.
A shadow fell across the till top. Ling Foo raised his slanted eyes. His face was like a graven Buddha’s, but there was a crackling in his ears as of many fire-crackers. There he stood – the man with the sluing walk! Ling Foo still wore a queue, so his hair could not very well stand on end.
“You speak English.”
It was not a question; it was a statement.
Ling Foo shrugged.
“Can do.”
“Cut out the pidgin. Your neighbour says you speak English fluently. At Moy’s tea-house restaurant they say that you lived in California for several years.”
“Twelve,” said Ling Foo with a certain dry humour.
“Why didn’t you admit me last night?”
“Shop closed.”
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?” asked the merchant.
“The string of glass beads you found on the floor last night.”
A sense of disaster rolled over the Oriental. Had he been overhasty in ridding himself of the beads? Patience! Wait a bit! Let the stranger open the door to the mystery.
“Glass beads?” he repeated, ruminatively.
“I will give you ten gold for them.”
Ha! Now they were getting somewhere. Ten gold! Then those devil beads had some worth outside a jeweller’s computations? Ling Foo smiled and spread his yellow hands.
“I haven’t them.”
“Where are they?”
The Oriental loaded his pipe and fired it.
“Where is the man who stumbled in here last night?” he countered.
“His body is probably in the Yang-tse by now,” returned Cunningham, grimly.
He knew his Oriental. He would have to frighten this Chinaman badly, or engage his cupidity to a point where resistance would be futile.
There was a devil brooding over his head. Ling Foo felt it strangely. His charms were in the far room. He would have to fend off the devil without material aid, and that was generally a hopeless job. With that twist of Oriental thought which will never be understood by the Occidental, Ling Foo laid down his campaign.
“I found it, true. But I sold it this morning.”
“For how much?”
“Four Mex.”
Cunningham laughed. It was actually honest laughter, provoked by a lively sense of humour.
“To whom did you sell it, and where can I find the buyer?”
Ling Foo picked up the laughter, as it were, and gave his individual quirk to it.
“I see,” said Cunningham, gravely.
“So?”
“Get that necklace back for me and I will give you a hundred gold.”
“Five hundred.”
“You saw what happened last night.”
“Oh, you will not beat in my head,” Ling Foo declared, easily. “What is there about this string of beads that makes it worth a hundred gold – and life worth nothing?”
“Very well,” said Cunningham, resignedly. “I am a secret agent of the British Government. That string of glass beads is the key to a code relating to the uprisings in India. The loss of it will cost a great deal of money and time. Bring it back here this afternoon, and I will pay down five hundred gold.”
“I agree,” replied Ling Foo, tossing his pipe into the alcove. “But no one must follow me. I do not trust you. There is nothing to prevent you from robbing me in the street and refusing to pay me. And where will you get five hundred gold? Gold has vanished. Even the leaf has all but disappeared.”
Cunningham dipped his hand into a pocket, and magically a dozen double eagles rolled and vibrated upon the counter, sending into Ling Foo’s ears that music so peculiar to gold. Many days had gone by since he had set his gaze upon the yellow metal. His hand reached down – only to feel – but not so quickly as the white hand, which scooped up the coin trickily, with the skill of a prestidigitator.
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