Ling Foo pressed down his excitement and slowly approached the vase. A

necklace! He gave the object a slight kick, which sent it rattling toward

the door to the rear. He resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the

necklace he gave it another kick. At length the necklace was at the

threshold. Ling Foo approached the light and shut it off. Next he opened

the door and kicked the necklace across the threshold. Diamonds--thirty

or forty of them on a string.

The room in the rear was divided into workshop and storeroom. The living

rooms were above. His wife was squatted on the floor in an unlittered

corner mending a ceremonial robe of his. She was always in this room at

night when Ling Foo was in the shop.

He ignored her and carried his prize to a lapidary's bench. He perched

himself on a stool and reached for his magnifying glass. A queer little

hiss broke through his lips. Cut-glass beads, patently Occidental, and

here in Shanghai practically worthless!

In his passion of disappointment he executed a gesture as if to hurl the

beads to the floor, but let his arm sink slowly. He had made a mistake.

These beads had not brought tragedy in and out of his shop. Somehow he had

missed the object; some nook or corner had escaped him. In the morning he

would examine every inch of the floor. White men did not kill each other

for a string of glass beads.

He stirred the beads about on his palm, and presently swung them under the

droplight. Beautifully cut, small and large beads alternating, and on the

smaller a graven letter he could not decipher. He observed some dark

specks, and scrutinized them under the magnifying glass. Blood! His

Oriental mind groped hopelessly. Blood! He could make nothing of it. A

murderous quarrel over such as these!

For a long time Ling Foo sat on his stool, the image of Buddha

contemplating the way. Outside the storm carried on vigorously, sending

rattles into casements and shudders into doors. The wifely needle, a

thread of silver fire, shuttled back and forth in the heavy brocade silk.

Glass beads! Trumpery! Ling Foo slid off the stool and shuffled back into

the shop for his metal pipe.

Having pushed Ling Foo into this blind alley, out of which he was shortly

to emerge, none the wiser, the Pagan Madonna swooped down upon the young

woman with the ruddy hair and touched her with the impelling finger.




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