“‘Mellican lady slick?” queries the masker solicitously; “‘Mellican lady walm? Ching Ling flannee, flannee.”
And raising his Japanese fan, he begins to ply it vigorously.
Mentally confiding “Ching Ling,” to a region where fans are needed and are not, Stanhope sways, as if about to faint, and motions toward a reclining chair.
The mask propels it close to the window, and the detective sinks into it, with a long drawn sigh.
Then, plying his fan with renewed vigor, the Celestial murmurs tenderly:
“‘Mellican lady slick?”
“Confound you,” thinks Stanhope; “I will try and be too slick for you.” Then, for the first time, he utters a word for the Celestial’s hearing. Moving his head restlessly he articulates, feebly:
“The heat—I feel—faint!” Then, half rising from the chair, seeming to make a last effort, he reels and murmuring: “Water—water,” sinks back presenting the appearance of utter lifelessness.
“Water!” The Celestial, utterly deceived, drops the fan and his dialect at the same moment, and muttering: “She has fainted!” springs to the door.
It is just what Stanhope had hoped for. When the Celestial returns with the water, the fainting lady will have disappeared.