“No so fast, Mr. Wu,” the shipper said ferociously, thrusting himself between Wu and the door. “My time’s precious too, but I’m going to devote all that’s requisite to getting an answer to my question. I’ve got the conviction lodged in this obstinate British head of mine that you know quite well what I want to know—and what I am going to know. And that’s what I’ve got you here for—to tell me what I want to know. And, by the Lord, you will before you leave this room. I know that you can lay hands on my son—dead or alive. I know that you can—by God! I know that you can——”
“Can you lay hands on him?”
“I? No! No!” the English father almost sobbed it, recoiling.
“Well, when you can——”
“But I can lay hands on you if you don’t satisfy me——”
“I do not think that Mr. Gregory will commit that—indiscretion,” Wu said significantly.
There was a bitter pause. When Gregory broke it his voice wavered; he was greatly moved. “You’re ruining my business,” he cried, “you’re hanging over me like a sword of Damocles.”
“That sword may have had two edges, Mr. Gregory,” Wu said quietly. “The man who wounds his enemy with one is apt to cut himself with the other. The sword,” he added, strolling to the window, “is not my weapon.”
Robert Gregory backed stealthily up to the door and fumbled with his right hand in his pocket. And Wu, turning to go, saw that his face was twitching.
Wu Li Chang had no thought of sparing this other father—Basil Gregory’s father—but he was sorry for him now; and it may be recorded—as a modest contribution to the study of racial comparisons.