Occidental, Ling Foo laid down his campaign. “I found it, true. But I sold it this morning.” 70 70 “For how much?” “Four Mex.” Cunningham laughed. It was actually honest laughter, provoked by a lively sense of humour. “To whom did you sell it, and where can I find the buyer?” Ling Foo picked up the laughter, as it were, and gave his individual quirk to it. “I see,” said Cunningham, gravely. “So?” “Get that necklace back for me and I will give you a hundred gold.” “Five hundred.” “You saw what happened last night.” “Oh, you will not beat in my head,” Ling Foo declared, easily. “What is there about this string of beads that makes it worth a hundred gold—and life worth nothing?” “Very well,” said Cunningham, resignedly. “I am a secret agent of the British Government. That string of glass beads is the key to a code relating to the uprisings in India. The loss of it will cost a great deal of money and time. Bring it back here this afternoon, and I will pay down five hundred gold.” “I agree,” replied Ling Foo, tossing his pipe into the alcove. “But no one must follow me. I do not trust you. There is nothing to prevent you 71 from robbing me in the street and refusing to pay me. And where will you get five hundred gold? Gold has vanished. Even the leaf has all but disappeared.” 71 Cunningham dipped his hand into a pocket, and magically a dozen double eagles rolled and vibrated upon the counter, sending into Ling Foo’s ears that music so peculiar
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