As he did so the room darkened. He involuntarily looked up. Framed in the circle of the port-hole were the head and shoulders of Tsang Foo. Not a muscle of the yellow face moved, not a tremor of the slanting eyelids showed surprise. The right hand, holding a bit of tow, mechanically continued polishing the brass around the port-hole, but the left—long, thin, and with claw-like nails, shot stealthily forward and snatched the pistol.
For a full minute the polishing continued, then face and figure vanished, and Reynolds was left staring in impotent rage at the empty port-hole.
When the room steward appeared in answer to an imperative summons, he was directed to send Tsang Foo to room No. 7 at once.
Tsang came almost immediately, bearing tea and anchovy sandwiches, which he urbanely placed on a camp-stool.
"Where's my pistol?" demanded Reynolds hotly, holding to the door to steady himself.
Tsang's eyes, earnest as a dog's, were lifted to his:
"He fall overboard," he explained suavely, "me velly solly."
Reynolds impulsively lifted his arm to strike, but a second impulse, engulfing the first, made him turn and fling himself upon his berth, struggling to master the heavy sobs that shook him from head to foot.
The Chinaman softly closed the door and slipped the bolt, then he dropped to a sitting posture on the floor and waited.
When the squall had passed, Reynolds addressed his companion from the depths of the pillows in language suited to his comprehension.