When he rose Ah Sing had entered, and stood waiting to say, "Your honorable instructions have been obeyed."
"Good," Wu said grimly, throwing more powder, from a different box, on to the votive oil. A thin smoke curled up, thickening as it rose into perfumed clouds that broke in waves of jade hues until all the room was a glow of green.
"Bring him now!" the mandarin said, seating himself beside the table and waiting with an expressionless face.
Ah Sing said something to a servant waiting outside the door through which he had come, and presently feet came along the passage. They were bringing Basil Gregory to Wu Li Chang.
They had not met or exchanged a message since Wu had bent and gathered up Nang Ping where she had swooned at Basil's feet. Since then no slightest message from the outer world had reached the prisoner in the pagoda. Wu's servants had brought him food, and, on the second night, even a rug; but not once had they spoken to him or appeared to hear what he said to them.
The hours in the pagoda had marked him. And—why not? Those other hours there had marked Nang Ping down to doom. The man does not go scot-free. Never! That is immemorial fallacy. Nature would be full-moon mad if that were so—and nature is very wise and sane, as wise as she is old. The partners foot the bill both—always. Nang Ping had paid her share. Now he was paying his.
He looked ill and haggard, and his wrists were bound together. Two Chinese servants stood guarding him, close on either side. Almost at the threshold Ah Sing halted the three.
Basil Gregory had no doubt that he was about to die
