Stolen Idols. E. Phillips Oppenheim

even the girl’s presence had been unable to modify them, was becoming overshadowed. His late host’s cold words of advice seemed to have made not the slightest impression upon him. He thought of the small packing case in the purser’s office with almost feverish impatience, joyful of the permission to sleep on board for the night, anxious only for the moment when he should reach the quay. Somehow or other Endacott’s serious, stilted talk had immensely confirmed his belief in the existence of the jewels, and as for the rest—the warning he had received—this, in all probability, simply proceeded from the vapourings of a mind steeped in Orientalism, the mind of a scholar, removed for half a lifetime from the whole world of common sense and possibilities. Morally, he was as other young men. He would have scorned to cheat or lie; he had an inherited sense of honour and a sportsman’s probity. A mean action would have revolted him—he was capable of a great one. He was a little selfish, a little narrow in his pride of name and race, as courageous as any man might be, with the undoubted conceit of his class. Such as he was, he had no fear of change. He had never indulged in self-analysis. He accepted himself for what he was, which, on the whole, was something a little better than the average. He had no presentiment of even temporary ill-fortune, as he stepped into the ship’s boat waiting by the quay, and looked eagerly across the harbour to where the great steamer lay anchored with her blazing line of lights.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      At very nearly the hour of his former visit, Gregory Ballaston entered the warehouse of Messrs. Johnson and Company, on the following morning. Wu Ling, seated at his table, waved away the stolid-looking native foreman to whom he was giving orders, and glanced enquiringly at his visitor.

      “Ship not gone?” he asked.

      “We don’t sail until the afternoon,” Gregory reminded him. “Haven’t got all our fresh stores shipped, or something. I came back to have a talk. Do you mind?”

      Wu Ling’s gesture was noncommittal. The young man continued.

      “Last night,” he confided, sinking into a chair, “I unpacked my Image. I took it out and looked at it, with my porthole closed and my door locked, although I imagine that now that the priests are dead there is no fear of my being followed.—Wu Ling, I wish to God that you were an Englishman!”

      “Why for?”

      “I could talk to you more easily.”

      There was a brief silence. Wu Ling, stolid, powerful, imperturbable, sat with his keen enquiring eyes fixed upon his visitor. Gregory showed signs of some slight relapse from his well-being of the day before. His natural, bronzed complexion which had almost reasserted itself, seemed to have given place again to the pallor which denoted a sleepless night. There were lines under his eyes, a restlessness in his manner.

      “You found Image bad company?” Wu Ling enquired.

      “I hate the beastly thing already,” Gregory acknowledged.

      Wu Ling clapped his hands softly together. The screen of bamboos was pushed to one side and Mr. Endacott appeared. He had discarded his European clothes in favour of the dress of a native Chinese gentleman, and he carried a white umbrella.

      “Our young friend again,” he remarked, with a brief salutation.

      Wu Ling pointed to a chair.

      “He wish talk to you.”

      Mr. Endacott glanced at his watch before he sat down.

      “I am about to visit the head of the Chinese University here,” he announced. “A man of rare intelligence and great learning! Why should I waste my time? Have you found the jewels in your Image, Mr. Ballaston?”

      “Not a sign of them up to the present, sir,” Gregory admitted. “I am not very happy about them, either. As you know, the whole thing was a pretty dangerous enterprise, and I’ve only half succeeded. The Image is heavy enough, but I can’t see any possible aperture anywhere.”

      “The recovery of the jewels,” Mr. Endacott remarked, leaning a little forward, with his hands clasped upon the knob of his umbrella, “was scarcely likely to be a simple matter.”

      “I realise that,” Gregory confessed. “Already I am beginning to feel a sort of hatred of the thing. For the first time last night,” he went on, “I felt inclined to take seriously what Wu Ling here and you have said of these Images; that neither of them has any real existence separately. Side by side they have looked down upon that procession of worshippers through all these years. Side by side they must be, you have told me, according to the superstition, if the jewels are to be found.”

      Mr. Endacott inclined his head.

      “Our young friend is showing signs of intelligence,” he admitted. “He is beginning to travel along the lines of the allegory.”

      “If this is true,” Gregory asked bluntly, “what is the use of my taking one to England and leaving the other here in this warehouse?”

      “The only reason for such a course seems to be,” his companion murmured, “that one does not belong to you. Perhaps you can trade with the firm. I myself am not a trader. Wu Ling is. Wu Ling, I am sure, is at your disposal.”

      “How can I trade?” Gregory demanded. “What do you suppose brought me out here on an enterprise like this? Love of adventure a good deal, I grant you, but, behind it all, sheer and absolute need of money. We are poor in England to-day, Mr. Endacott, we people with estates. I haven’t the money to buy your Image. After my experience of last night I would rather consider an offer from you for mine.”

      Wu Ling smiled. He talked for a moment in Chinese to his companion. The latter showed signs of agreement.

      “Wu Ling’s attitude is mine,” Mr. Endacott pronounced. “If by any chance you had acquired the statue we possess and we had yours, the firm of Johnson and Company would trade. Not now. We are content.”

      “Then you don’t believe in your own allegory?” Gregory queried.

      Wu Ling was looking into the dark recesses of the warehouse. There was nothing to indicate that he had heard or understood, but it was he who replied.

      “Yes, I believe in it,” he admitted. “We both believe in it, but we have many jewels and I think that these will be hard to find.”

      “If you had both the Images,” Gregory suggested, “you could break them up.”

      Mr. Endacott raised his hand to his forehead as though in pain. Wu Ling’s expression appeared unchanged. Yet somehow or other he gave one the impression of having listened with distaste to words of blasphemy.

      “You speak like a huckster from the new cities,” Mr. Endacott said wearily. “They are great works of art, these Images, sanctified by the years, alive by virtue of their greatness. To raise a hand against them would be barbarous. Besides, Wu Ling and I believe the legend. We believe that those will die who treat the Images roughly.”

      Gregory remained discontented. He took a cigarette from the large wooden box which Wu Ling pushed towards him. The box was of some sort of sandalwood, but it, too, seemed to give out the peculiar odour of the place.

      “Last night,” he confided, “when I sat alone with my Image, it came back to me how my father himself had insisted upon the necessity for securing both Images. He too must have been impressed by the legend. He’ll think my errand a failure if I return with one.”

      “Without money how buy?” Wu Ling asked. “Johnson and Company, we are traders. For gold we sell anything on earth. Without gold, how can buy?”

      “It is a problem,” Gregory admitted gloomily.

      “You had, perhaps, a proposition?” Mr. Endacott suggested.

      “Something of the sort. That is why I came to see you this morning. I wondered whether you would let me