But she need not have said it. Neither of them had word or voice.
They met no one. They heard nothing—except once the far-off trilling of a nightingale, telling the day good-by.
For such was the quality of Wu Li Chang. He had commanded the servants to their quarters, on the other side of the estate, when they should have undone the doors and gates.
But Ah Wong did not slacken her anxious pace, or let them slacken theirs, until the shore was almost reached.
Then, just before they were within sight of the waiting boat and of the boatmen’s eyes, she stopped and untied Basil’s arms. It was not easy work, although she had a knife. And Mrs. Gregory could give no help.
They stumbled into the boat as best they could, but not without aiding hands, the mother and son. Ah Wong scrambled in nimbly. And at a word from her the watermen lifted their poles—and they had left Kowloon.
They leaned against each other, the English mother and her boy, as the small craft crossed the bay, but not a word was spoken by either of them or to either of them. They huddled together dumb with relief and with exhaustion, and almost numb with the horror they had known.
Unobtrusive, stolid, commonplace in manner as in her humble amah garb, Ah Wong directed and enforced everything.
Ten million stars came out and specked with diamond dust the grave, blue sky. The moon came up and rippled with silver and with gold the rippling water. And before the night-flowers of Kowloon had ceased to lave their faces with the fragrance which was “good-night,” the fragrance of the night-flowers of Hong Kong Island rushed out to them and buffeted them with sweetness.
The world was very placid. The night was radiant. The night was very still. And the smiling indifference of the night was cruel. At least, the English woman felt it so. Basil felt nothing. Ah Wong was scheming.