Into this curious chamber of commerce, ushered by a Chinese boy, came Gregory Ballaston, the Englishman whom Wu Ling had rescued a short while ago. The Chinese boy murmured something and departed. Wu Ling nodded a welcome to his visitor—a grave, reserved welcome.
“No gone England yet,” he observed.
The young man sank into the chair which the other’s gesture indicated. He had evidently found his clothes, for he was very correctly dressed in the European fashion. His manner was self-possessed and his voice level. Nevertheless his pallor was almost ghastly and there were still blue lines under his eyes. He had the air of a man who has been through some form of suffering.
“You have heard the story of my friend, Wu Ling?” he asked.
The Chinaman shook his head and pointed around.
“Much affairs,” he explained. “Very busy. Smoke cigarette?”
Gregory Ballaston helped himself from the open box.
“My friend got away,” he recounted; “reached Pekin and got safely on to the train. At some God-forsaken place on the way here, the train was held up. There seems to have been confusion for an hour or so. When the soldiers arrived, my friend was found with his throat cut, and the Chinaman who had been his guide and interpreter was killed too.”
Wu Ling inclined his head gravely. The story was not an unusual one.
“Robbers in China are bad men,” he declared. “And the Images?”