Bradley learnt nothing on the mainland. He saw his dead friend, and prayed an English prayer beside him, kneeling down between him and a grinning, long, red-tongued Chinese god. That was all.
When he reached his own bungalow, he went into his tiny study, locked its door, and knelt again—at the prie-Dieu that stood against the wall between the little silver crucifix and an engraving of a tender, sorrowful face beneath a crown of thorns.
Between the elder Gregory's relief at his son's return and his exultation at Wu's death, the younger Gregory came off nearly scot-free of paternal reprimand, and quite free of any real parental wrath.
"Where the very dickens have you been?" was the father's greeting when they met at breakfast. "A pretty state we've been in!—upsetting the entire family—and me—and the business! You shall answer to me for this, young man. Why the devil don't you pass that toast?"
"I've—I've only been a short trip, pater, off the island," Basil replied, not greatly perturbed.
"I'll short trip you!" the father said with beetling brows; and the tone in which he laconically said, "More," as he thrust his coffee cup to Hilda was very fierce indeed, but he winked at her with just the corner of his left eye; Basil was on his other side. And presently Robert Gregory chuckled openly as he helped himself to marmalade. And when he was leaving the table he slapped his boy on the back, but not too roughly.
"Dead broke?" he demanded,
Basil was about to say, "No, indeed!" but he caught Ah Wong's sudden eye, and said instead, "Well, yes, I'm afraid I am rather."
Robert Gregory chuckled again. "I've a damned good notion to send you home in the steerage—jolly
