CHAPTER XVII
The Signal of the Gong
And then the breakdown came, and she sank down,
weeping and distracted, on the long stone seat.
Her father in Kowloon! Her father who was almost
omniscient! How long had he been there? What had
he learned?
Somewhere in the house a great gong sounded—seven slow beats, deep throated as the braying of some blood-*hound, but low and soft at first, growing louder, then soft again, all musical, but almost uncannily significant. As the second note beat into the garden, Nang Ping roused herself, and sat up against the seat's back, clutching at it desperately. She listened in fear that grew to anguish as note followed note. Only one hand ever struck that gong! As the brazened signal died away in the scented evening air, she sprang up and ran distracted on to the bridge, calling, "Basil! Basil!" thinking no longer of herself but only to save the lover who had spoiled her life. Women are like that in China—and in England.
He came at once, and she bent over the bridge to him and said, as he stood on the path he had come by, "You must go. My father! Go quickly!"
"Your father!"
"Go—go now! Quick!"
"But we're safe here—for the moment." He was glad of an excuse to leave her, and yet he wanted too to
