“Ever see any?” he asked a moment later.
“See what?” Florence asked, startled.
“Beg pardon. Ever see any Chinese children? No, of course not. Well, they’re the cutest ever.
“Look!”
Drawing a thin metal case from his pocket, he shook a handful of cards from it, then spread them out on the table.
Florence stared in astonishment. Each card was a photograph, the picture of a Chinese child. Children asleep, children crying, laughing, romping. In their quaint costumes they were indeed fascinating.
“Little children.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “The hospital was for them. The people had agreed that all the treasures of the temple should be sold and the money spent in equipping their hospital for children, the quaint little children of China.
“And then,” his voice changed abruptly, “the treasures were all lost. I fear the money may never be paid. And it was entirely my own fault! Can you imagine what that means to me?”
Florence did not answer. She was thinking hard. And in her thoughts the mental image of a long-eared Chinaman was blended with flashes of a three-bladed knife and the pictures of a host of cute Chinese children.
When at last she broke the silence she was surprised to find that her voice, too, had taken on a suspicious hoarseness.