“Oh, you will not beat in my head,” Ling Foo declared, easily. “What is there about this string of beads that makes it worth a hundred gold—and life worth nothing?”
“Very well,” said Cunningham, resignedly. “I am a secret agent of the British Government. That string of glass beads is the key to a code relating to the uprisings in India. The loss of it will cost a great deal of money and time. Bring it back here this afternoon, and I will pay down five hundred gold.”
“I agree,” replied Ling Foo, tossing his pipe into the alcove. “But no one must follow me. I do not trust you. There is nothing to prevent you 71 from robbing me in the street and refusing to pay me. And where will you get five hundred gold? Gold has vanished. Even the leaf has all but disappeared.”
Cunningham dipped his hand into a pocket, and magically a dozen double eagles rolled and vibrated upon the counter, sending into Ling Foo’s ears that music so peculiar to gold. Many days had gone by since he had set his gaze upon the yellow metal. His hand reached down—only to feel—but not so quickly as the white hand, which scooped up the coin trickily, with the skill of a prestidigitator.
“Five hundred gold, then. But are you sure you can get the beads back?”
Ling Foo smiled.
“I have a way. I will meet you in the lobby of the Astor House at five”; and he bowed with Oriental courtesy.
“Agreed. All aboveboard, remember, or you will feel the iron hand of the British Government.”
Ling Foo doubted that, but he kept this doubt to himself.
“I warn you, I shall go armed. You will bring the gold to the Astor House. If I see you after I depart——”