They brought a letter, in Chinese characters, on red paper in a buff and red envelope, which Brachey examined with curiosity.
“No savvy,” he said.
But the faithful John, inarticulate from confusion and fright could not translate.
Between this hour in mid-afternoon and early evening, six of these documents were passed in through Brachey's door. With the last one, John appeared to see a little light.
“Number one policeman wanchee know pidgin belong you,” he explained laboriously.
That would doubtless mean the police minister. So they wanted to know his business! But as matters stood, with no other medium of communication than John's patient but bewildered brain, explanation would be difficult. Brachey reached for his book and read on. Something would have to happen, of course. It really hardly mattered what. He even felt a little relief. The authorities might settle his business for him. Pack him off. It would be better. M. Pourmont's letter to Griggsby Doane had burned in his pocket for two days. It had seemed to press him, like the hand of fate, to Betty's very roof. Now, since he had become—the simile rose—a passive shuttlecock, a counterplay of fate might prove a way out of his dilemma.
He had chicken fried in oil for his dinner. And John ransacked the boxes for dainties; as if the occasion demanded indulgence.
At eight John knocked with shaking hands at his door. It was dark in the courtyard, and a soft April rain was falling. Two fresh soldiers stood there, each with carbine on back and a lighted paper lantern in band. A boy from the inn held two closed umbrellas of oiled paper.
“Go now,” said John, out of a dry throat.
“Go what side?” asked Brachey, surveying the little group.