“A very charming young person,” Sir Bertram conceded. “She naturally enough left the neighbourhood very soon afterwards. I understand, however, that she is expected shortly on a visit to the Little House.”
Luncheon drew towards its close. A very wonderful port was served and drunk, after preliminary encomiums, in respectful silence. Sir Bertram rose to his feet.
“We shall find cigars and coffee in the library, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “If I cannot persuade you to drink another glass of wine we might, perhaps, rise.”
The four men left the room together. The guest of the morning, on his way across the hall, looked about him with an interest which was entirely genuine, for in his way he was a lover of beautiful things. Gregory drew his attention to a famous picture opposite the foot of the staircase and detained him until they became temporarily detached from the others. After a casual reference, indifferently voiced, to a world-famous old master his tone suddenly changed. It was intense, curiously vibrant.
“I must ask you once more,” he said quietly,—“I must ask you this—Mr. Johnson. Do you remember a man—a brave fellow he was—who used to trade up the Yun-Tse River amongst the villages? Wu Ling, they called him.”
“Wu Ling?” Mr. Johnson repeated. “A Chinaman?”
“He passed as such,” Gregory admitted. “He might have been anything. His name even might have been Johnson.”
The tenant of the Great House smiled tolerantly.
“Wu Ling,” he commented, “is a very nice name. On the whole I prefer it to my own. Mine is and always has been Johnson—Peter Johnson—Peter Johnson of New York.”
Gregory led the way towards the library. It seemed to him that there was nothing more to be said.