He was at bay. And he was going to fight—to the very end, let the end be what it might. But, in spite of his fierce self-control and genuine grit, he did not look a man “fit” to put up a big fight. For two nights he had had little sleep, and none that was restful. And to Holman’s friendly, searching eyes he betrayed several signs of the hideous strain and worry with which he was battling. The business catastrophes that had heaped up about him were bad enough—enough to unnerve any man, and he was palpably unnerved—but the first thought in his mind, the burning object of its ceaseless search, was—his son. He was holding his head defiantly, but the veins at his temples were twitching.
Holman took the telegram out of his pocket, and, with emotion that he could not quite conceal, leaned across the desk, holding it out to Gregory.
“Mr. Gregory,” he said—“the Feima——” But he did not have to finish.
“Oh, yes! I know, I know,” Gregory said listlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Tom Carruthers began; “I’m awfully sorry for this, Mr. Gregory.”
Robert Gregory swung round in his chair and banged the desk fiercely with his clenched fist. “Sorry—Tom! By God, I’ll make some one pay for this—but who? What have we got to fight? Holman, you still think it’s this man Wu? Eh?”
“I don’t think, governor,” Holman said, leaning across the desk in his earnestness, “I’m positive. In some way we’ve run up against the most powerful man in China.”
“Well, I’m testing your theory, Holman. I’m having that cursed Chinaman here.”
Tom Carruthers turned in his insecure seat on the window-ledge, so astonished that he very nearly slid off it; and Holman was distinctly perturbed.
“I sent him a chit this morning from the club, telling him I wished to see him here urgently at two o’clock on a matter of the gravest importance.”