now, and the revolver had slipped from his sleeve "I do not misunderstand your having made the offensive remark—it was a mere mark of difference of caste and education. But do not repeat it," he added smilingly, "or in any way allude to my ancestors"—the bullets were in his pistol, and Gregory was putting his emptied weapon irritably into a drawer. "You were asking me, I think, what I knew about the disappearance of your son and of certain commercial catastrophes which, I regret to hear, have lately overtaken you. Well, I will be perfectly frank with you—perfectly frank, Mr. Gregory, perfectly frank. I will conceal nothing." The yellow hands slipped up quietly on to the desk. "And the first thing I have to say is"—the barrel of the pistol thrust forward—"look at this!"
Robert Gregory sprang up with a smothered oath, and his hand went convulsively towards the bell on the desk, "Ah, no!" Wu said, "don't move, or it might go off by pure accident." Gregory shifted out of Wu's aim and made a foolish furtive attempt to ring. Wu covered him instantly, smiling still. "Don't move, I say! Sit down! Sit down, Gregory!"
And Robert Gregory very slowly sat down—obedient partly in fear, partly in defeat, and a little in a somewhat hypnotized subjection to a bigger, more skillful man. Then suddenly he pulled the drawer open to look at his own revolver.
"No," Wu told him, "not sleight of hand. This is not your revolver, but it's identical"
"That's my son's revolver. I know. I gave it to him myself. Now, damn you, I have got something to go on!"
