"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 glass 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."
"I agree," replied Ling Foo, tossing his pipe into the alcove. "But no one
must follow me. I do not trust you. There is nothing to prevent you from
robbing me in the street and refusing to pay me. And where will you get
five hundred gold? Gold has vanished. Even the leaf has all but
disappeared."
Cunningham dipped his hand into a pocket, and magically a dozen double
eagles rolled and vibrated upon the counter, sending into Ling Foo's ears
that music so peculiar to gold. Many days had gone by since he had set his
gaze upon the yellow metal. His hand reached down--only to feel--but not
so quickly as the white hand, which scooped up the coin trickily, with the
skill of a prestidigitator.