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 seeming so exacting, but I believe that revolver is loaded."

"It is—in every chamber," the other snapped.

"Well," the mandarin spoke so indifferently that he almost drawled, but his voice was honeyed, "if we are to arrive at an amicable understanding, I think I should prefer, as a matter of politeness—we Chinese lay such foolish stress on politeness—not to feel that I was discussing matters at the cannon's mouth, so to speak. Retain the weapon, by all means, but be so good as to remove the cartridges."

Gregory fidgeted, hesitating nervously.

"Merely as a matter of good faith," Wu urged conciliatorily. "That weapon might go off, you know—by pure accident. He stretched his hand, palm up, across the desk.

Gregory looked at the open palm oddly, embarrassed, and then looked round anxiously at the window. Then, shrugging his shoulders and trying to speak indifferently, "Why not?" he said, and lifting the pistol, jerked it, and the cartridges fell out onto the desk.

"Thank you," Wu said genially. "That makes the interesting conversation much more possible." He began playing with them lightly, throwing and catching them as nimble-fingered boys do jackstones; and Gregory watched the deft, sinewy yellow hand, fascinated. "One—two—three—four—five—beautifully made little things, are they not?" Wu's voice was dove-like. "Now we can start fair. Pray continue, Mr. Gregory, from the point where you left off." One yellow hand dropped nonchalantly on to Wu's knee below the table, two cartridges in the subtle fingers. "But please omit to make any further disrespectful allusion to my ancestors." He was leaning forward on the desk, both hands beneath it