“Oh, he got better—his father was dosing him with quaint proprietary medicines. I think he was suffering from enteric fever, and nursing is the only thing that cures that. He’s in China now—quite an important person.”
“I should like to have that other story,” said Tab. “Kipling gets my goat. That ‘other story’ of his is never told. I think he must have had them in his mind when he referred to them, but he got lazy on it.”
“My other story must keep,” she smiled. “Some day—perhaps—but not now. The father of the boy laid out my little Chinese garden, by-the-way.”
Tab had come by train and there was a long walk to the station. He stayed to the very last moment, and then had to hurry to catch the one fast express of the afternoon. He had gone a leisurely hundred yards from the front gate (you cannot walk fast if you turn around at intervals for a glimpse of a cool white figure) when he saw a dusty roadfarer coming toward him. The awkward gait of the walker, his baggy clothes, the huge Derby hat pulled down to his ears, attracted Tab’s attention long before he could distinguish the man’s features. When he did, it was with a spasm of surprise. The walker was a Chinaman and carried in his hand a flat packet.
The oriental deviated from the straight path to cross the road. Without a word he carefully unwrapped a thin paper cover and exposed a letter. It was addressed to “Miss Ursula Ardfern, Stone Cottage,” and on the wrapper Tab saw a number of Chinese characters which he guessed were directions to the messenger.
“Tell,” said the man laconically. He evidently knew little English.
“That house on the left,” said Tab pointing. “How far have you come, Chink?”
“Velly well,” said the man, and taking the letter folded it again in its covering and trotted off.
Tab looked after him, wondering. How curious a coincidence, he thought, that they should have been talking about the Chinese only half-an-hour before?
He had to run and then only caught the train as it was pulling out of the station.