“Money counts for something out here, too,” Gregory protested. “Look at your friend and partner, Wu Ling, trading up the river with machine guns and rifles to protect himself. For what? To make money. He’s doing it for Johnson and Company. You’re one of the firm, Mr. Endacott.”
The latter nodded.
“Touché,” he admitted. “But let me point out to you, young gentleman, that the things Wu Ling brings back to our warehouses are things of beauty.”
“Which he pays for with rubbish,” Gregory rejoined. “Half of your warehouse is an abomination; the other half, I admit, a treasure house.”
Mr. Endacott gently inclined his head.
“I cannot defend myself,” he acknowledged. “I am a partner in the firm because they insisted. All my savings for twenty years, which I advanced to them, were, they tell me, the foundation from which the business has been built up. But, believe me, I have never seen inside a ledger. Once every twelve months, a strange little man brings me a slip of paper. I look at it, and the business for the year is finished.”
“It is perhaps as well,” Gregory observed, “that your associates are probably honest. Wu Ling, for instance.”
“Wu Ling is an amazing person,” Mr. Endacott pronounced.
“Is he altogether Chinese?” Gregory enquired. “There have been times when he has puzzled me.”
“No one but Wu Ling knows who Wu Ling is or where he comes from,” was the enigmatic reply. “He is a power unto himself.”