"that Mr. Gregory should not call me 'Wu,' but 'Mr. Wu'"
Robert Gregory looked up sharply, and, when he had looked, rose less sharply and even a little less confidently. He had never seen Wu before. And he was not a little taken aback at the man's dress, his splendid size and undeniably superior manner. And with that first look something very like a touch of fear came to Robert Gregory, and a subtle, vague sense of the almost hypnotic power of Wu's personality.
"—Otherwise," the Chinese continued—just the faintest hint of amusement in the quiet, courteous voice—"I shall be compelled to call Mr. Gregory plain 'Gregory' to reciprocate the honor he has done me, and I do not think we are sufficiently intimate to allow of such a familiarity—on my part."
"Oh!" the other said, as nonchalantly as he could, and looking not at his visitor but at the letters he was holding, "I'm a busy man." He felt the prick. Wu had drawn first blood. The duel was far from fair—one foe played a rapier with a master-wrist; one bungled with a bludgeon awkwardly.
"Quite so," Wu agreed; "but such a fraction of a second only—Wu is so short a name that you could say 'Mr. Wu' while I was saying 'Gregory.'" A threat was never made more delicately—or with a nicer smile—but it was made, and recorded in both minds, and with it a sinister something of prophecy.
Robert Gregory winced. "Oh! sit down," he said uneasily.
The reply was easy and pleasant, "Thank you!" And, laying his hat on the desk, Wu sat.
Gregory remained standing—fussing at the papers and his pigeon-holes. And his tone was mandatory.
