“Hey! Maybe you’ve hit on something!” Biff exclaimed.

It was nine o’clock when Biff and his father entered the small Chinese curio shop of Ling Tang. Ling Tang, a small, neat man in his middle thirties, greeted them with a deep bow.

“You honor my humble establishment by your presence,” he said.

“Rather it is you who honor us by inviting us here,” Mr. Brewster replied, falling easily into the polite form of greeting used by the Chinese.

Ling Tang’s shop was filled with graceful Chinese urns and vases, beautifully decorated with green and red dragons, flowers, and tree-filled valleys. Chinese fans hung from wires stretched from wall to wall. In glass-covered cases were carved idols of jade and delicate pieces of ivory. A heavy aroma of incense filled the small store.

Ling Tang had attended Butler University in Indianapolis with Charles Keene, the uncle Biff was going to visit. They had become close friends, and this had led to a friendship with the entire Brewster family. On graduating, Ling Tang had returned to China. After several years, when the political atmosphere of Red China had put a stern, cruel check on freedom of movement and freedom of speech, Ling Tang had fled his beloved country and returned to America. He had opened his shop and thrived.

“We received your message, Tang,” Mr. Brewster said.

Ling Tang placed the tips of his long, well-cared-for fingers together.

“It is true that your son goes to Burma soon?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

Tang’s face remained expressionless. “Perhaps what I have to tell you is of no importance. I do not wish to alarm you.” He paused. “This trip was arranged several months ago?”

Biff and his father nodded their heads.

“And there has been no attempt to keep it secret?”

“There was no need to,” Thomas Brewster stated.

“I wonder. Was the boy’s trip not arranged when my good friend Charles Keene visited here last?”

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