"This is very interesting," the mandarin said, sitting down again. "Very interesting—very. As for the torture I am preparing for you, I shall not increase it, because it cannot be increased. Largest cannot be enlarged. To the utmost one cannot add. So," he laughed softly, "you wish very much to write to your mother—a virtuous lady who bore a son in wedlock!"
Basil Gregory dropped his head. He could no longer meet the eyes of the father of Nang Ping.
"I suppose you would scarcely credit," the Chinese voice went on softly, "that my consideration for you had gone even beyond that? Would you like—not to write to your mother—but to see her?"
"See her!"
"Because you shall."
"See her!" Basil cried, trembling as he had not trembled before. "Oh! Mr. Wu!"
"Yes," Wu said slowly (and it says something of him and of his race that it did not occur to the other to doubt him—nor would have occurred to any one), "you shall. And you shall see her soon. You may even go home with her this very evening and sail for Europe next week. It is quite possible." He spoke with quiet emphasis.
"Mr. Wu!" the blanched face was twitching hideously, "oh! I would do anything!" The frightened eyes leapt and burned. Gregory's revulsion was terrible—the great revulsion of reprieve, or nightmare torture past and gone, the revulsion of a starving man at sudden meat and plenty, of one dying of thirst who finds a brimming mountain-pool cool to his reach, of the mother who from hours of agony slips towards sleep with the warm velvet of her baby snuggled to her breast. He took one eager step forward, and so far the men beside him let
