He whirled so clumsily that he nearly fell among the boxes and the broken and trampled bits of gold and silver; fixed his good eye on her, while the other, of glass, gazed vacantly over her shoulder.
She coolly studied him—the flushed face, bulging pockets, protruding shirt where he had stuffed in those astonishing ropes of pearls.
He said then, vaguely: “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I'd come along. Suppose he stays back there—drinks some more. You'd be sort of up against it, wouldn't you?”
“I'd be no worse off than you.” He was evasive, and more than a little sullen. She saw that he was foolishly trying to keep his broad person between her and the boxes.
“You couldn't handle the junk without Tom. Not very well.... Look here, Tex, it can't be very far to the concessions at Hankow. We could pick up a cart, or even walk it.”
“What good would that do?”
“There'll be steamers down to Shanghai.”
“And there'll be police to drag us off.”
“How can they? What can they pin on you?” Connor's eye wavered back toward the grove and the buildings. He was again breathing hard. “After all this..” he muttered. “That old viceroy'll be up here, you know. With his mob, too. And there's plenty of people here to tell....” He was trying now to hold an arm across his middle in a position that would conceal the treasure there.