The Pagan Madonna (A Treasure Hunt Tale). MacGrath Harold
right.”
Ling Foo was willing to forego his usual hundred per cent. profit in order to start the day with a sale. Then he spread out the grass linen.
Jane went into raptures over some of the designs, but in the end she shook her head. She wanted something from Shanghai, something from Hong-Kong, something from Yokohama. If she followed her inclination she would go broke here and now.
“Have you any jade? Understand, I’m not buying. Just want to see some.”
“No, lady; but I can bring you some this afternoon.”
“I warn you, I’m not buying.”
“I shall be glad to show the lady. What time shall I call?”
“Oh, about tea time.”
Ling Foo reached inside his jacket and produced a string of cut-glass beads.
“How pretty! What are they?”
“Glass.”
Jane hooked the string round her neck and viewed the result in the mirror. The sunshine, striking the facets, set fire to the beads. They were really lovely. She took a sudden fancy to them.
“How much?”
“Four Mex.” It was magnanimous of Ling Foo.
“I’ll take them.” They were real, anyhow. “Bring your jade at tea time and call for Miss Norman. I can’t give you any more time.”
“Yes, lady.”
Ling Foo bundled up his assorted merchandise and trotted away infinitely relieved. The whole affair was off his hands. In no wise could the police bother him now. He knew nothing; he would know nothing until he met his honourable ancestors.
From ten until three Jane, under the guidance of Captain Dennison, stormed the shops on the Bunds and Nanking Road; but in returning to the Astor House she realized with dismay that she had expended the major portion of her ammunition in this offensive. She doubted if she would have enough to buy a kimono in Japan. It was dreadful to be poor and to have a taste for luxury and an eye for beauty.
“Captain,” she said as they sat down to tea, “I’m going to ask one more favour.”
“What is it?”
“A Chinaman is coming with some jade. If I’m alone with him I’m afraid I’ll buy something, and I really can’t spend another penny in Shanghai.”
“I see. Want me to shoo him off in case his persistence is too much for you.”
“Exactly. It’s very nice of you.”
“Greatest pleasure in the world. I wish the job was permanent—shooing ’em away from you.”
She sent him a quick sidelong glance, but he was smiling. Still, there was something in the tone that quickened her pulse. All nonsense, of course; both of them stony, as the Britishers put it; both of them returning to the States for bread and butter.
“Why didn’t you put up here?” she asked. “There is plenty of room.”
“Well, I thought perhaps it would be better if I stayed at the Palace.”
“Nonsense! Who cares?”
“I do.” And this time he did not smile.
“I suppose my Chinaman will be waiting in the lobby.”
“Let’s toddle along, then.”
Dennison followed her out of the tea room, his gaze focused on the back of her neck, and it was just possible to resist the mad inclination to bend and kiss the smooth, ivory-tinted skin. He was not ready to analyze the impulse for fear he might find how deep down the propellant was. A woman, young in the heart, young in the body, and old in the mind, disillusioned but not embittered, unafraid, resourceful, sometimes beautiful and sometimes plain, but always splendidly alive.
Perhaps the wisest move on his part was to avoid her companionship, invent some excuse to return by the way of Manila, pretend he had transfer orders. To spend twenty-one days on the same ship with her and to keep his head seemed a bit too strong. Had there been something substantial reaching down from the future—a dependable job—he would have gone with her joyously. But he had not a dollar beyond his accumulated pay; that would melt quickly enough when he reached the States. He was thirty; he would have to hustle to get anywhere by the time he was forty. His only hope was that back in the States they were calling for men who knew how to manage men, and he had just been discharged—or recalled for that purpose—from the best school for that. But they were calling for specialists, too, and he was a jack of all trades and master of none.
He knew something about art, something about music, something about languages; but he could not write. He was a fair navigator, but not fair enough for a paying job. He could take an automobile engine apart and reassemble it with skill, but any chauffeur could do that.
“Hadn’t we better go into the parlour?” he heard Jane asking as they passed out.
“We’ll be alone there. It will be easier for you to resist temptation, I suppose, if there isn’t any audience. Audiences are nuisances. Men have killed each other because they feared the crowd might mistake common sense for the yellow streak.”
Instantly the thought leaped into the girl’s mind: Supposing such an event lay back of this strange silence about his home and his people? She recalled the ruthless ferocity with which he had broken up a street fight between American and Japanese soldiers one afternoon in Vladivostok. Supposing he had killed someone? But she had to repudiate this theory. No officer in the United States Army could cover up anything like that.
“Come to the parlour,” she said to Ling Foo, who was smiling and kotowing.
Ling Foo picked up his blackwood box. Inwardly he was not at all pleased at the prospect of having an outsider witness the little business transaction he had in mind. Obliquely he studied the bronze mask. There was no eagerness, no curiosity, no indifference. It struck Ling Foo that there was something Oriental in this officer’s repose. But five hundred gold! Five hundred dollars in American gold—for a string of glass beads!
He set the blackwood box on a stand, opened it, and spread out jade earrings, rings, fobs, bracelets, strings. The girl’s eagerness caused Ling Foo to sigh with relief. It would be easy.
“I warned you that I should not buy anything,” said Jane, ruefully. “But even if I had the money I would not buy this kind of a jade necklace. I should want apple-green.”
“Ah!” said Ling Foo, shocked with delight. “Perhaps we can make a bargain. You have those glass beads I sold you this morning?”
“Yes, I am wearing them.”
Jane took off her mink-fur collaret, which was sadly worn.
Ling Foo’s hand went into his box again. From a piece of cotton cloth he drew forth a necklace of apple-green jade, almost perfect.
“Oh, the lovely thing!” Jane seized the necklace. “To possess something like this! Isn’t it glorious, captain?”
“Let me see it.” Dennison inspected the necklace carefully. “It is genuine. Where did you get this?”
Ling Foo shrugged.
“Long ago, during the Boxer troubles, I bought it from a sailor.”
“Ah, probably loot from the Peking palace. How much is it worth?”
Murder blazed up in Ling Foo’s heart, but his face remained smilingly bland.
“What I can get for it. But if the lady wishes I will give it to her in exchange for the glass beads. I had no right to sell the beads,” Ling Foo went on with a deprecating gesture. “I thought the man who owned them would never claim them. But he came this noon. Something belonging to his ancestor—and he demands it.”
“Trade