"Alone," he added with a horrid emphasis. "But a mother's love is capable of any sacrifice, is it not?"
"It is capable of much sacrifice," the woman returned, some dignity lingering in her voice.
"If your son were in any peril, you would"
"Oh!" the mother said sadly, "I would give—my very life."
"Your life!" the mandarin exclaimed almost contemptuously. "In China life is cheap. Is there nothing you value even more?"
"Why?" she asked feebly, at bay now, and putting up such poor fight as she could for time, in the desperate hope that some outside help might come—from Ah Wong or from somewhere. "Why, what can one value more than life?"
"Let us rather say," the Chinese insinuated, bending until his breath fanned her cheek, "what can a woman value more than her own life—or the life of her son?" He paused, not for a reply—he expected none—but to watch the effect upon her of his poisoned words; to watch and gloat. She, poor creature, no longer made any pretense. Her strength was gone: worn away by the persistent drip, drip of his long, slow cruelty. She looked about the room wildly, saw the face leering close to hers, and shrank away shuddering. "When I have your attention, Mrs. Gregory," Wu said determinedly, but falling back a pace or two.
The entrapped woman summoned up all her courage. "You shall have it, Mr. Wu," she said steadily, rising, "from the moment you tell me what I came to hear."
"If you will be seated again," the mandarin said suavely, "I will proceed to do so. But you must allow me to choose my own route."
Florence Gregory looked at her tormentor squarely,
