Yung How did not move a muscle of his face.
"Then I fail to understand you," said he.
"I will make my meaning plainer," said the other. "This afternoon I send these letters to Hong-Kong by post, by the night boat. They will arrive to-morrow morning. In two--or at the most three--days, the ransom will be paid: twenty thousand dollars will be conveyed by some means from Hong-Kong to the Glade of Children's Tears. I think no soldiers will be sent because the Englishman in his letter has expressly stated that such a course would not be wise."
At that moment there came a loud, persistent rapping on the outer door, which Ah Wu had already locked. Ling at once ceased talking, but it is a singular fact that he was the only one of the four of them who showed no signs of being alarmed. They sat in silence, listening for several minutes, during which time the knocking upon the door continued. It was Ling who was the first to speak.
"Who is there?" he asked, addressing himself to Ah Wu.
Ling got to his feet, strolled across the room, and drawing the curtains, unbolted the door. On opening it he beheld, standing before him upon the threshold, a man dressed in the scarlet coat of Cheong-Chau's brigand band.
"He is not here," said Ling. "You can come in, if you like, and see for yourself."
The man entered the opium den, advancing down the centre of the room. Frank recognised him at once: he was the man who had accompanied Men-Ching upon his journey from the mountains. He went straight up to Ah Wu, to whom he bowed, folding his hands in accordance with the custom of his nation.
"You, I believe, are Ah Wu?" he asked. "You are the landlord of this establishment?"
"I come for a friend of mine, Men-Ching by name. I think you know him. He told me he would be here."
"He is not here," said Ah Wu, who, palpably nervous, from time to time glanced in the direction of Ling.
"That is strange," said the man. "He certainly told me that I should find him here. Can you tell me where he is?"
Ah Wu shook his head. "I cannot say," said he.
The man looked perplexed. He stood for a moment stroking his chin, as if he was undecided what to do. Then Ling laid one of his great hands upon the man's shoulder.
"I will tell you where he is," said he. "He left here in great haste--and unexpectedly. He has gone upon a journey--a long journey. He did not say where he was going, for two reasons: firstly, he had no time to tell us; secondly, I do not believe he knew. And so, my friend, we can give you no information likely to be of value. Who are we, that we should know all things, that we should be able to solve the riddles of the universe? We are poor mortals, with little wisdom and great hopes. We arrange our lives in accordance with our own ideas, and those ideas are but guess-work, the product of imagination. We know nothing. We live in the dark. The printed page of the book of mysteries lies open before us, but we are blind and unable to read. Could I soar higher than an eagle, traversing the eternal plains of space, I might be able to tell you something of Men-Ching. As it is, I cannot." And Ling, with a shrug of the shoulders, turned away.