She raised her eyes and smiled at him in thinking of it, but the smile faltered and she drew away. They were about to be disturbed. Beyond the rose branches far down the drive she saw a figure moving toward them at a slow, uncertain pace, looking to and fro. "See, there's some one coming."
"Oh, the gardener!" he said as one would say "Oh, fiddlesticks!"
The gardener had been her first thought. But now she rose uneasily, since she saw it was not he, asking herself, "Who else, at such an hour?"
By this time Chatworth, still seated, had caught sight of it. "Hello," he said, "what sort of a thing is that?"
It was a short, shabby, nondescript little figure, shuffling rapidly along the winding walk between the rose bushes. Now they saw the top of his round black felt hat. Now only a twinkling pair of legs. Now, around the last clump of bushes he appeared full length, and, suddenly dropping his businesslike shuffle, approached them at a languid walk.
Flora grasped Chatworth's arm in nervous terror. "Tell him to go," she whispered; "make him go away."
The blue-eyed Chinaman was planted before them stolidly, with the curious blind look of his guarded eyes blinking in his withered face. He wore for the first time the blouse of his people, and his hands were folded in his sleeves.
"Who's this?" said Chatworth, appealing to Flora.
At this the Chinaman spoke. "Mr. Crew," he croaked.
The Englishman, looking from the Oriental to Flora, still demanded explanations with expostulating gesture.