Instantly the potion worked. Calmed as if by a miracle, made drowsy to a point where speech was impossible, the white man, tortured but a moment before, tipped sleepily into Fong Wu’s arms. The Chinese waited until a full effect was secured, when he lifted his limp patient to the blanket-covered ironing-table. Then he went out for fuel, built a fire, and, humming softly—with no fear of waking the other—sat down to watch the steeping of more herbs.
What happened next at the square-fronted house was the unexpected. Again there was a sound of approaching footsteps, again someone gained the porch. But this time there was no pausing to ask for admission, there were no weak requests for aid. A swift hand felt for the knob and found it; a strong arm pushed at the unlocked door. And through it, bareheaded, with burning eyes and blanched cheeks, her heavy riding-whip dangling by a thong from her wrist, came the wife of Anthony Barrett.
Just across the sill she halted and swept the dim room. A moment, and the burning eyes fell upon the freighted ironing-table. She gave a piercing cry.
Fong Wu neither spoke nor moved.
After the first outburst, she was quiet—the quiet that is deliberative, threatening. Then she slowly closed her fingers about the whip butt. Fixing her gaze in passionate anger upon him, she advanced a few steps.
“So it was you,” she said, and her voice was hollow.
To that he made no sign, and even his colourless face told nothing.
She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath. “You dog of a Chinaman!” she said at last, and struck her riding-skirt.
Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed out the figure on the ironing-table.