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sundries, and arranging them as best she could, first locking the dressing-room door from the bedroom side and hiding the key in her bosom.
The flowers seemed innocent enough, but Ah Wong would die before her English lady should touch them or inhale their breath.
Ah Wong was absurdly wrong—if devotion can ever be absurd; the flowers were exactly what they seemed. Wu Li Chang was no crude bungler. When he unsheathed his knife the knife would cut, but it would leave no trace of Wu.
Of the tragedy that had been enacted at Kowloon Ah Wong knew exactly nothing; but she suspected almost all, and the details of her suspicion were uncannily accurate. She was Chinese.
