“We would divide equally,” was Gregory’s prompt proposal.
Wu Ling, a man not given to gestures, beat the air in front of him gently with the fingers of his hands.
“We would not agree,” he said. “I would not agree. Mr. Endacott would not agree. Our partner, who is not here, would not agree.”
Gregory frowned. He followed Wu Ling’s steadfast gaze, followed it into the further recesses of the second warehouse. He began to think of the Image he had lost, the Image in the steel chamber. A sense of its beauty suddenly possessed him. He coveted it passionately.
“In a way,” he ventured, “the Image which you have locked up there, the Image which you call the Soul, rather belongs to me, don’t you think? I have, at least, a claim upon it. I fought to secure it. My friend lost his life in defending it.”
Wu Ling’s smile was almost a genuine effort at mirth. Mr. Endacott chuckled sardonically.
“If I were you, young man,” he advised, “I don’t think that I would pursue that line of argument.”
“It was stolen property,” Gregory persisted doggedly.
“And the stolen property was stolen,” Mr. Endacott reminded him.
There was a silence. An impasse seemed to have been reached. It seemed indeed as though there were nothing more to be done, no further argument he could use. Yet Gregory Ballaston sat as though rooted to the spot. To leave the place with his desire unattained seemed almost a physical impossibility. Then, unexpectedly, Wu Ling spoke at some length.