hubbub belched up from the yard. And as he spoke Murray came in with two cards—a long, thin slip of crimson paper, the mandarin's name and title inscribed on it in black Chinese characters, and an ordinary English visting card, simply engraved "Mr. Wu."
"He's getting out of his rickshaw, sir," Murray told his employer.
"And every man jack of the coolies is ko'towing to him as if he was a god," Holman grunted from the window.
Gregory rose to his feet with a careful show of calm. "Well," he remarked cheerfully, "we'll soon see now what sort of stuff this well-advertised Chinaman is made of. Show him in, Murray. Holman, take my wife to the den near the counting-house. She'll want to stay, of course, to hear the result. Now, please, off you all go."
The others turned to the door to which he had pointed—not the door that led to the hall, but at the other end of the long room—but Florence Gregory went up to her husband. "Robert" she began, but she could not say more, and her eyes were swimming.
Her husband cupped her face in his hands. "There, Mother, there," he said tenderly, and just a little brokenly, "I know, dear, I know. I understand. There—there. It's all right. I'll be careful—very, very careful. Ah Wong!" But he need not have called Ah Wong—she was there already, waiting to serve; and though Hilda turned to her mother as if to help her, and Tom Carruthers and Holman did too, it was Ah Wong who led her out, Ah Wong to whose hand she held and leaned on a little as she went.
