Brachey welcomed the opportunity for a little man talk, if only because it might, for the time, take his mind in some degree out of the emotional whirlpool in which it was helplessly revolving.
“You've heard no more news?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Po, with his soft little laugh. “There is no more oil on fire of province discontent.”
“From your letter I gathered that you are not so sure of Pao.”
Mr. Po did not at once reply to this; seemed to be considering it, gazing out on the moonlit courtyard.
“It is no longer a case of cat and mouse,” Brachey pressed on. “Something happened last night at the yamen. Am I right?”
“Oh, yes.”
Brachey waited. After a long pause Mr. Po shifted his position, laughed a little, then spoke as follows:
“In afternoon yesterday old reprobate, Kang, sent to His Excellency letter which passed between my hands as secretary. He said that in days like these of great sorrow and humiliation agony of China it is best that those of responsible care and devotion to her welfare should draw together in friendship, and therefore he would in evening make call on His Excellency to express friendship and speak of measures that might lay dust of misunderstanding and what-not.”
“Hmm!” Thus Brachey. “And what did that mean?”