Sir Bertram rose to his feet.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he rejoined. “The man they sent down from Christie’s spent over an hour examining that Image. I’ve never seen a fellow so interested in my life. He had to give it up in the end, but he wasn’t any more satisfied than I am.”
Sir Bertram had wandered off into the other room, lifted the Image from its pedestal and, bringing it back, placed it upon his knee. The lamplight flashed upon its black, polished surface. To Gregory, its expression seemed, if possible, even more vicious than ever.
“Gregory,” his father continued thoughtfully, “you know who told me the story. He was a man absolutely incapable of falsehood, and he knew what he was talking about. He was the greatest man in China in those days. I am as certain as I sit here that either this Image or the other one contains the whole of the treasure of the temple.”
“Why not have this one broken up?” Gregory suggested.
“And risk getting blown to pieces?”
The young man shook his head.
“A bit too thick, that,” he protested. “I have a wonderful amount of faith in the story, but I should think any explosive that was ever put inside there would be a little mouldy by this time.”
“I’m not so sure,” Sir Bertram reflected. “Those priests were always devils at protecting themselves against marauders. Besides, in any case, the thing as it stands is worth something.”
“Let’s sell it then?” Gregory proposed eagerly.