Almost Wu Li Chang’s Chinese imperturbability cracked under his strain. His sorrow and his rage panted in his throat, battled, almost squealed aloud. But he was master yet a little, and he said smoothly, “Well, are your thumbs more comfortable?”
“If I were only free, I’d throttle you.” Basil said it, of course, to cover his own terror—but, too, he meant it. He was insanely angry with Wu. The offender rarely forgives!
“The heated language of youth!” the mandarin said with contemptuous patronage. “But I will be indulgent. You will admit, I think, that, so far, you have been dealt with leniently—considering the resourcefulness usually attributed to us in the matter of ingenious torture.”
“I presume you have not yet exhausted your ingenuity,” Gregory said with sullen, trembling lips.
“By no means,” was the bland reply.
“And that is why I am brought here; I supposed so.”
“Partly,” the Chinese replied coldly; “also to prepare you for a shock.”
“Death”—Basil tried to say it stoically. And, too, since it was to come, it would almost be welcome in place of such suspense.
“Nothing so pleasant,” Wu replied.