The Pagan Madonna Part 8

"All this racket about those beads. My father and this man Cunningham in the same town generally has significance. It is eight years since I saw Cunningham. Of course I could not forget his face, but it's rather remarkable that he remembered mine. He is--if you tear away the romance--nothing more or less than a thief."

"A thief?"--astonishedly.

"Not the ordinary kind; something of a prince of thieves. He makes it possible--he and his ilk--for men like my father to establish private museums. And now I'm going to ask you to do me a favour. It's just a hunch. Hide those beads the moment you reach your room. They are yours as much as any one's, and they may bring you a fancy penny--if my hunch is worth anything. Hang that pigtail, for getting you mixed up in this! I don't like it."

Jane's hand went slowly to her throat; and even as her fingers touched the beads, now warm from contact, she became aware of something electrical which drew her eyes compellingly toward the man with the face of Ganymede and the limp of Vulcan. Four times she fought in vain, during dinner, that drawing, burning glance--and it troubled her. Never before had a man's eye forced hers in this indescribable fashion. It was almost as if the man had said, "Look at me! Look at me!"

After coffee she decided to retire, and bade Dennison good-night. Once in her room she laid the beads on the dresser and sat down by the window to recast the remarkable ending of this day. From the stars to the room, from the room to the stars, her glance roved uneasily. Had she fallen upon an adventure? Was Dennison's theory correct regarding the beads? She rose and went to the dresser, inspecting the beads carefully. Positively gla.s.s!

That Anthony Cleigh should be seeking a string of gla.s.s beads seemed arrant nonsense.

She hung the beads on her throat and viewed the result in the mirror. It was then that her eye met a golden glint. She turned to see what had caused it, and was astonished to discover on the floor near the molding that poor Chinaman's bra.s.s hand warmer. She picked it up and turned back the jigsawed lid. The receptacle was filled with the ash of punk and charcoal.

There came a knock on the door.

CHAPTER VI

Now, then, the further adventures of Ling Foo of Woosung Road. He was an honest Chinaman. He would beat you down if he were buying, or he would overcharge you if he were selling. There was nothing dishonest in this; it was legitimate business. He was only shrewd, not crooked. But on this day he came into contact with a situation that tried his soul, and tricked him into overplaying his hand.

That morning he had returned to his shop in a contented frame of mind. He stood clear of the tragedy of the night before. That had never happened; he had dreamed it. Of course he would be wondering whether or not the man had died.

When Ling Foo went forth with his business in his pack he always closed the shop. Here in upper Woosung Road it would not have paid him to hire a clerk. His wife, obedient creature though she was, spoke almost no pidgin--business--English; and besides that, she was a poor bargainer.

It was hard by noon when he let himself into the shop. The first object he sought was his metal pipe. Two puffs, and the craving was satisfied. He took up his counting rack and slithered the b.u.t.tons back and forth. He had made three sales at the Astor and two at the Palace, which was fair business, considering the times.

A shadow fell across the till top. Ling Foo raised his slanted eyes. His face was like a graven Buddha's, but there was a crackling in his ears as of many fire-crackers. There he stood--the man with the sluing walk! Ling Foo still wore a queue, so his hair could not very well stand on end.

"You speak English."

It was not a question; it was a statement.

Ling Foo shrugged.

"Can do."

"Cut out the pidgin. Your neighbour says you speak English fluently. At Moy's tea-house restaurant they say that you lived in California for several years."

"Twelve," said Ling Foo with a certain dry humour.

"Why didn't you admit me last night?"

"Shop closed."

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?" asked the merchant.

"The string of gla.s.s beads you found on the floor last night."

A sense of disaster rolled over the Oriental. Had he been overhasty in ridding himself of the beads? Patience! Wait a bit! Let the stranger open the door to the mystery.

"Gla.s.s beads?" he repeated, ruminatively.

"I will give you ten gold for them."

Ha! Now they were getting somewhere. Ten gold! Then those devil beads had some worth outside a jeweller's computations? Ling Foo smiled and spread his yellow hands.

"I haven't them."

"Where are they?"

The Oriental loaded his pipe and fired it.

"Where is the man who stumbled in here last night?" he countered.

"His body is probably in the Yang-tse by now," returned Cunningham, grimly.

He knew his Oriental. He would have to frighten this Chinaman badly, or engage his cupidity to a point where resistance would be futile.

There was a devil brooding over his head. Ling Foo felt it strangely. His charms were in the far room. He would have to fend off the devil without material aid, and that was generally a hopeless job. With that twist of Oriental thought which will never be understood by the Occidental, Ling Foo laid down his campaign.

"I found it, true. But I sold it this morning."

"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 gla.s.s 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."