A Chinese youth, with a handful of trinkets, slipped into the room, and furtively proffered his wares.
"Very good, number-one jade-stone. Make missy velly plitty. Can buy?"
Percival motioned him away, only to have him return.
"Jade-stone velly nice! Plitty young missy wanchee jade-stone."
"Did she say she wanted it?" demanded Percival, with sudden interest.
The boy grinned. "Oh, yes. Wanchee heap! No have got fifty dollar'. Master have got. Wanchee buy?"
Percival tossed him the money and lay the pendant on the table. Then he resumed his pacing and his disturbed meditations. If he could only keep himself firmly in hand during those next four days, all would be well. Once safely anchored in the harbor of his sister's eminently proper English circle, the song of the siren would doubtless fade away, and he would thank Heaven fervently for his miraculous escape. Meanwhile he listened with increasing impatience for the first flutter of the siren's wings,
"Wanchee Manchu coatt?" whispered an insidious voice at his elbow, and, looking down, he saw the enterprising lad with a pile of gorgeous silks over his arm and cupidity writ large in his narrow eyes.
"No, no; go away!" commanded Percival.
"Velly fine dragon coat. Him all same b'long mandarin. How much?"