Ling bent down and placed both hands upon the sleeper's chest. Then he smiled, and turning slowly round, looked Ah Wu straight in the face.
"They are here," said he. "It is the custom of the gods to reward those who deserve to prosper."
"What do you seek?" asked Ah Wu, upon the features of whose face was stamped an expression of the most profound dismay.
"The letters," said Ling. "The letters for which I have searched for fourteen days."
"Fourteen days ago," retorted Ah Wu, "they were not written."
"Of that," answered the other, "I confess I know nothing, and care less. It is sufficient for me--and for you, too--that I have found that for which I sought."
There was a pause. And then Yung How asked a question.
"How did you know about these letters?" said he.
Ling smiled again. "Do you think," he asked, "that when I found you three rascals with heads together in this very room--do you think I did not know that something was afoot, something into which it might be worth my while to inquire? Do you suppose for a moment I believed your lies? No. I watched. And I sent a spy here to smoke opium and to pretend to sleep--a spy who listened to all you had to say, who told me that Cheong-Chau had sent a messenger with the news that the fish had been landed high and dry, and a promise that both Ah Wu and yourself would have your share of the ransom as soon as it was paid. I had but to watch the river. And when I was told that one of Cheong-Chau's men had been seen in Sanshui, and the description of that man agreed with Men-Ching, I should be little short of a fool if I did not guess that Men-Ching carried with him letters demanding a ransom. And now," he concluded, "these same letters are mine."
He bent down, and very gently unbuttoned Men-Ching's coat. Then, without waking the sleeper, who appeared to be heavily drugged with opium, he tore open the lining and drew out the two letters: that of Cheong-Chau, written in Chinese, and Sir Thomas Armitage's letter, written in English.