Miss Kendrick's face was pale, but its firm expression was an index to her resolve to save Moon Ying from this creature at any cost.
"No," she repeated sharply, "we don't want a Chinese girl--or boy either. We never hire them. You go now." And with a gesture to the man-servant who stood beside her, she turned and was gone without a glance in my direction.
The man-servant, in eager obedience to Miss Kendrick's hint, took the Chinaman by the shoulders, and amid protesting exclamations of "Wha' fo'? Wha' fo'?" ran him out of the hall, and started him down the steps, his speeding word to the departing guest taking the form of: "Get out of here, John, and if you come back I'll kick you out."
Then suddenly catching sight of me, he recovered his breath and his dignity with a sudden effort.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hampden," he gasped. "I didn't know you was here. Mr. Kendrick is just done dinner. He's gone to his smoking-room. He said if you came I was to show you right in." And with a glance to see that the Chinaman had reached the sidewalk, he shut the door and led the way to the master of the house.
I followed him mechanically, but my thoughts were far from the errand of Peter Bolton's schemes that had brought me hither. An insistent question ran through my mind in endless variations, but when reduced to words it took this form: "Where have I seen the face of the old Chinaman before?"
CHAPTER XVI
LAYING DOWN THE LAW
Wharton Kendrick sat at his ease in smoking-jacket and slippers, but his brow was wrinkled with thought. The cigar that he held between his teeth gave evidence of his discomposure of mind, for it was unlighted, and one end of it had been reduced to the semblance of a cud. I had just delivered to him a conscientious account of my interview with Peter Bolton, and now observed the perturbant reflections that it had stirred.
"Was that all you could get out of the old rascal?" he said after an interval of silence.