“Then the other Image——?”
“The other Image is not for sale,” Mr. Endacott said calmly.
“Who has it?” Gregory ventured.
“Well,” Mr. Endacott confided, “the members of the firm were Wu Ling, a nebulous Mr. Johnson and myself. When I consider,” he continued, “the extreme measures which you and your friend took to possess yourselves of these Images—measures, by the way, which may be justified by precedent but hardly by morality—I can scarcely, do you know, bring myself to reveal whether it is the domicile of Wu Ling, the possible mansion of Mr. Johnson in Alexandria, or my very conveniently near abode here, which might be indicated as the scene of your future adventures.”
Gregory was already sunburnt, but he felt his cheeks grow hotter.
“Well, I suppose I asked for that,” he admitted grimly. “What about the Image, which is at present in our possession? To whom do you consider that it belongs?”
“The firm being now dissolved,” Mr. Endacott mused, “the matter perhaps requires reflection. I will answer you later on. In the meantime, I shall leave you and my niece to better your acquaintance. My Eastern habits prevail. I desire to sleep.”
He made his way towards the house; a lank, shambling figure, yet not without a certain dignity in his abstracted movements. Gregory glanced anxiously towards his companion. She remained seated in her chair, munching some chocolates from a box.
“Have one?” she invited, holding it out towards him.
He declined, but was conscious of a poignant sense of relief. With the airy tact of her sex she had demonstrated her position. It was to be peace, not war; oblivion, if not forgiveness.