to gold. Many days had gone by since he had set his gaze upon the yellow metal. His hand reached down—only to feel—but not so quickly as the white hand, which scooped up the coin trickily, with the skill of a prestidigitator. “Five hundred gold, then. But are you sure you can get the beads back?” Ling Foo smiled. “I have a way. I will meet you in the lobby of the Astor House at five”; and he bowed with Oriental courtesy. “Agreed. All aboveboard, remember, or you will feel the iron hand of the British Government.” Ling Foo doubted that, but he kept this doubt to himself. “I warn you, I shall go armed. You will bring the gold to the Astor House. If I see you after I depart——” “Lord love you, once that code key is in my 72 hands you can go to heaven or the devil, as you please! We live in rough times, Ling Foo.” 72 “So we do. There is a stain on the floor, about where you stand. It is the blood of a white man.” “What would you, when a comrade attempts to deceive you?” “At five in the lobby of the Astor House. Good day,” concluded Ling Foo, fingering the buttons on his counting rack. Cunningham limped out into the cold sunshine. Ling Foo shook his head. So like a boy’s, that face! He shuddered slightly. He knew that a savage devil lay ready behind that handsome mask—he had seen it last night. But five hundred gold—for a string of glass beads! Ling Foo was an honest man. He would pay you cash for cash in a bargain. If he overcharged you that was your fault, but he never sold you imitations on the basis that you would not know the difference. If he sold you a Ming jar—for twice what it was worth in the great marts—experts would tell you that it was Ming. He had some jade of superior quality—the translucent deep apple-green. He never carried it about; he never even spoke of it unless he was sure that the prospective customer was wealthy. His safe was in a corner of his workshop. An American yegg would have laughed at it, opened 73 it as easily as a ripe peach; but in this district it
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