“Since it was expressed to me,” he hurried to add, “that American journalist notability was in our midst, I have amused myself with fool thought that you would run eyes over it and let me have worst of it.”
“It would be a pleasure,” said Brachey, civilly enough but with considerable dismissive force, extending his hand.
So, Mr. Po, smiling but something crestfallen, sauntered away.
2
At ten o'clock that night Brachey sat in the angular chair, his Bible in Spain lying open on his knees, his weary face deeply shadowed and yellow-gray in the flickering light of the native lamp on the table beside him.
John tapped at the door; came softly in; stood, holding the door to behind him.
“Well?” cried Brachey irritably. “Well?”
“Man wanchee see you. Can do?”
“Man?... What man?”
“No savvy.”