CHAPTER XXXII
"Cur!"
"Nothing so pleasant"—and the perfect placidity
of his voice was more cruel than any outburst
could have been.
"Well," the other said desperately, "but there'll be a reckoning for all this—my father"
"Not necessarily, my young seducer," the Chinese said softly. "Your father I do not regard as a man at all formidable. I had a most interesting interview with him—to-day. And I formed a low opinion of his abilities. There is a positive hue and cry after you, of course—almost a paper-chase. The walls of Hong Kong city are plastered with your portrait, and even here, on the mainland, it is to be seen. It is a very nice portrait, too—the nice likeness of a nice English—gentleman—the portrait of a very handsome young—seducer." Wu Li Chang was not quite his own master now. The storm was rising, threatening his own insolent calm. He rose and moved a little up and down the carpet—quietly but stealthily, as hungry-for-flesh and thirstily-dry-for-blood cats move through the jungle in the night.
His last word cut Basil Gregory. Wu was behaving like the yellow dog he was; but he—Basil—was not entirely blameless: he had said as much to himself, alone in the pagoda—that cursed pagoda. Oh, well!
"Your daughter loved me," he began. And at a something manlier in his tone than Wu Li Chang had
