Rawson, who had entered with a tray, poured out three glasses from a bottle reclining in a cradle, with something approaching reverence in his manner. Mr. Johnson accepted the sherry and drank wine such as he had never tasted before. Just as he was setting the glass down, the door opened and Gregory entered. He came forward with all his father’s grace but a little more impetuously.
“This is my son Gregory,” Sir Bertram announced. “Mr. Johnson, Gregory—our new tenant.”
Gregory’s expression, as he had advanced to meet his father’s guest, had been one of polite but somewhat indifferent curiosity. He suddenly stopped short, however. The light of amazed recognition flashed in his eyes. For a brief period of time he was absolutely speechless.
“I am happy to meet you,” Mr. Johnson said.
Gregory’s hand for a moment sought his throat. The blank look of non-recognition in the face of this suave, smooth-faced man was arresting. Yet such a likeness could scarcely be possible. His brain was still confused, afire with a surge of memories of that still, oily river, the merciless sun, his flesh-biting bonds; afterwards the quiet, cool warehouse, with its pungent odours, its jumble of merchandise, its sombre silences. He became suddenly conscious of his father’s surprise, of Henry’s questioning frown.
“Surely,” he ventured at last, “we have met before?”
Mr. Johnson shook his head slowly.
“Not within my recollection,” he acknowledged.
There was another, although a briefer silence, a matter now only of seconds, but intense whilst it lasted. Gregory, looking a trifle dazed, held out his hand. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the other’s face and the wonder had never left them.
“So sorry to seem such an idiot,” he murmured politely, “but even now I am a little bewildered. We didn’t meet fifteen months ago in China—Wu Ling—the firm of Johnson and Company?”