"You speak English."

It was not a question; it was a statement.

Ling Foo shrugged.

"Can do."

"Cut out the pidgin. Your neighbour says you speak English fluently. At
Moy's tea-house restaurant they say that you lived in California for
several years."

"Twelve," said Ling Foo with a certain dry humour.

"Why didn't you admit me last night?"

"Shop closed."

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?" asked the merchant.

"The string of glass beads you found on the floor last night."

A sense of disaster rolled over the Oriental. Had he been overhasty in
ridding himself of the beads? Patience! Wait a bit! Let the stranger open
the door to the mystery.

"Glass beads?" he repeated, ruminatively.

"I will give you ten gold for them."

Ha! Now they were getting somewhere. Ten gold! Then those devil beads had
some worth outside a jeweller's computations? Ling Foo smiled and spread
his yellow hands.

"I haven't them."

"Where are they?"

The Oriental loaded his pipe and fired it.

"Where is the man who stumbled in here last night?" he countered.

"His body is probably in the Yang-tse by now," returned Cunningham,
grimly.

He knew his Oriental. He would have to frighten this Chinaman badly, or
engage his cupidity to a point where resistance would be futile.