Stolen Idols. E. Phillips Oppenheim

mine when I get there, anyhow, but you see I am beginning to fall in line with your superstition. I feel that both Images ought to be treated at the same time.”

      “And if the jewels should be discovered?” Mr. Endacott enquired.

      “We would divide equally,” was Gregory’s prompt proposal.

      Wu Ling, a man not given to gestures, beat the air in front of him gently with the fingers of his hands.

      “We would not agree,” he said. “I would not agree. Mr. Endacott would not agree. Our partner, who is not here, would not agree.”

      Gregory frowned. He followed Wu Ling’s steadfast gaze, followed it into the further recesses of the second warehouse. He began to think of the Image he had lost, the Image in the steel chamber. A sense of its beauty suddenly possessed him. He coveted it passionately.

      “In a way,” he ventured, “the Image which you have locked up there, the Image which you call the Soul, rather belongs to me, don’t you think? I have, at least, a claim upon it. I fought to secure it. My friend lost his life in defending it.”

      Wu Ling’s smile was almost a genuine effort at mirth. Mr. Endacott chuckled sardonically.

      “If I were you, young man,” he advised, “I don’t think that I would pursue that line of argument.”

      “It was stolen property,” Gregory persisted doggedly.

      “And the stolen property was stolen,” Mr. Endacott reminded him.

      There was a silence. An impasse seemed to have been reached. It seemed indeed as though there were nothing more to be done, no further argument he could use. Yet Gregory Ballaston sat as though rooted to the spot. To leave the place with his desire unattained seemed almost a physical impossibility. Then, unexpectedly, Wu Ling spoke at some length.

      “What you come here to say,” he began, “has reason. You come here with an idea which is right. Body and Soul you cannot part. Your Image without that one which belongs to Johnson and Company is a thing of evil. The Image we have locked in our treasure chamber is a thing of great beauty, and no more. You who desire the jewels cannot buy. We, to whom the jewels mean little, will not sell. Listen to me, young gentleman. I propose something.”

      “Go on,” Gregory begged eagerly.

      “You,” Wu Ling continued, “have a quality of the Chinese in you, or you would not have risked life for this adventure. You are gambler. Me too. I offer this. I will gamble with you for the two Images.”

      Gregory Ballaston held his cigarette away from his mouth and stared at the speaker. Temporarily, at any rate, his nonchalance had left him.

      “Are you in earnest?” he demanded.

      Wu Ling nodded gravely. Gregory glanced towards the professor. The latter also inclined his head gently.

      “If Wu Ling says so,” he murmured.

      “Gamble! But how? What games do we both know?”

      “There is a Chinese game,” Wu Ling began——

      “Not having any,” Gregory interrupted drily. “I have heard of these Chinese games. What about poker?”

      “Not understand,” Wu Ling regretted.

      Gregory sat for a moment or two deep in disturbed thought. More than anything he had ever coveted in the world he coveted that other Image.

      “Look here,” he decided at last, “I accept. But we don’t need to play a game at all. Send for a pack of cards, have them well shuffled and deal a card to each of us. The highest wins.”

      Wu Ling nodded approvingly.

      “It is simple,” he assented. “We do that. If you win, my porters shall pack Image and you can take it to ship. If you lose you bring yours here.”

      Gregory moistened his lips which were already a little dry.

      “It is agreed,” he said.

      Wu Ling opened one of the lower drawers of his desk. He searched for a few moments and then produced an ordinary pack of playing cards. He laid them upon the table.

      “In here?” Gregory demanded, glancing at the silent forms, always moving around them.

      “Why not?” Wu Ling replied. “What we do is nothing to them. They see nothing. They work.”

      Mr. Endacott chuckled as he took the cards in his hands and shuffled them.

      “You will lose, young man,” he warned Gregory. “I’ve seen a great many games of cards in this city, but I have never yet seen a European who could hold his own against a Chinese.”

      “This isn’t a game,” Gregory pointed out. “It’s just a show-down. My chance must be as good as his. We’ll make it the best of three, though.”

      “How?” Wu Ling queried politely.

      “A card each three times,” his partner explained, “and the one who wins twice out of three times gets the Images. It appears to me that I too am rather largely interested in this. Any choice as to who turns the first card up?”

      Gregory shook his head, cut the cards which were handed to him, and passed them to Wu Ling. The latter hesitated only for the fraction of a second. Then he threw one card to his opponent and one to himself. Gregory’s card was a knave; his own a queen.

      “One up to the firm,” Mr. Endacott observed.

      Gregory took the cards. His hands were beginning to shake. He gave his opponent a four. He himself threw down a ten.

      “One each,” he exclaimed, trying his best to keep his tone level.

      He shuffled and passed the cards across once more. Wu Ling sat for a moment toying with them, almost as though in silent prayer. Then he threw a card to Gregory.

      “A king!” the latter cried exultantly.

      “And the firm has an ace,” Mr. Endacott pointed out, as Wu Ling’s card fell upon the table.

      Gregory sat staring at it, motionless and rigid, the light of triumph fading from his face. There had been gamblers in his family, though, and heredity asserted itself. He rose calmly to his feet.

      “I’ll go down and pack the Image,” he said.

      Wu Ling clapped his hands. His expression had never varied. He showed no signs, even of content.

      “There will be porters who attend you,” he announced. “They will follow your ’rickshaw and bring back the Image.”

      Gregory held out his hand, even then scarcely realising the position. All this risk and privation for nothing, his friend’s life for nothing, all gone on the turn of a card. For a moment the place with its strange atmosphere seemed unreal, his adventure a nightmare. Then he heard Wu Ling giving orders to the foreman and saw him point to the harbour. He choked down his feelings.

      “I shall not sympathise with you,” Mr. Endacott said, as he shook hands. “Your enterprise has never commended itself to me, and your possession of the Body without the Soul was never a thing to be envied.”

      Gregory could not trust himself to reply. He held out his hand to Wu Ling, who took it gravely.

      “At least, Wu Ling,” he said, “if you have spoilt my trip out here, you saved my life. I don’t think it’s worth much, but I thank you. Send the porters along.”

      He turned and left the place; a tall, slim figure, graceful and trim in his well-fitting clothes, the strangest contrast to the blue-smocked coolies and one or two native traders through whom he had almost to push his way. He walked out into the broiling sun and disappeared.

      Mr. Endacott glanced at Wu Ling, and Wu Ling, with the cards in his hand, smiled back at him.

      The morning wore on, the afternoon came and passed. Mr. Endacott,