“Madam, can do,” the woman said, running off on her errand reluctantly.
“Did,” she reported presently. “Top-side chair. Plenty coolie.”
“Who is she?”—the English voice implied that the English mistress intended to be answered explicitly this time.
And Ah Wong answered desperately, “Her all same klinsloman Wu Li Chang. Live Kowloon yamên. Be mock mother lonorable miss-child we dlink tea.”
“Great Scot!” Hilda exclaimed. “What a time to choose to force her acquaintance on us—a Chinawoman! Even they must have heard of Basil’s disappearance, with every wall and corner in Hong Kong placarded with his description and his picture.”
“Oh! be quiet,” the mother told her. Florence was thinking—thinking hard.
Ah Wong was thinking too, and on the Chinese face, usually so inscrutable, there was an unmistakable pinch of anxiety, and her dog-like, devoted eyes were growing haggard.
“Take them away—where Mr. Gregory will not see them. But take care of them. Let the hotel servants see that we are treating them with the greatest respect. Do you understand?”
“Ah Wong understland,” the woman said. “Can do.” And she did do; but she only just could, for the great gilded bamboo basket of flowers was so heavy and so huge that she could scarcely lift it; she staggered a little as she carried it from the room.
And Basil Gregory’s mother went on thinking—on and on.