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 then beseechingly. She hesitated. And then she sank back listlessly on to the seat.

"And so," the man continued, "I will commence with—the sword."

Mrs. Gregory closed her aching eyes and caught her cold hands together—and waited.

The mandarin moved, and spoke more and more deliberately. Slowness could not be slower than his was now. He took down the sword—he remembered how he had touched it last—his face was ice, his voice as cold. "As I told you," he began, standing in front of her, the sword resting on its point, held between them, "it belonged to an ancestor of mine who lived many generations ago, Wu Li Chang, whose name I bear. Perhaps you would like to look at it more closely." There was a note of command in his voice, and the woman, obeying, lifted her head a little and fixed her agonized eyes on the weapon he held, edge towards her. "I will show it to you, and then restore it to its place. You see, the blade is no longer keen" But the point was. She saw neither. "I keep it merely for its history." He laid it on the table, laid it between the Englishwoman and himself, as he might have laid a covenant or some vital document of evidence, a terrible accusation, a great deed of gift.

The torture of the merciless leisurely recital was telling on the woman visibly. She had held a pistol stoically enough this morning. But when, at a weary movement of her own, the lace in her sleeve caught in the old sword's hilt, she shuddered and shrank back. She made no pretense of listening. She was "done," for then at least; and of her diplomatic courteousness not a shred was left. But yet she heard each word.

Wu sat down again, and the slow, cold voice went on