"So it was you," she said, and her voice was hollow.
To that he made no sign, and even his colorless face told nothing.
She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath. "You dog of a Chinaman!" she said at last, and struck her riding-skirt.
Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed out the figure on the ironing-table.
She sprang to her husband's side and bent over him. Presently she began to murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were tears on her lashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in whispers.
"Was I wrong?" she demanded brokenly. "I must have been. He's not had it; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faint color. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!"
A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu's lips. He picked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly upon it, letting the whip fall.
"Thank God! thank God!" she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face in her arms.
