“Events seem to prove that,” said the Chinaman drily, “I am merely
being consistent, Miss Ardfern. You have been under my personal
observation for seven years. Seven years, day and night, either I, or
one of my servants have been watching you. You never went--” he stopped
and changed the conversation.
“Miss Ardfern never went to Mr. Trasmere’s house but you weren’t
watching outside, that is what you were going to say, wasn’t it, Yeh
Ling?” smiled Carver. “You need not be reticent, because I know all
about it, and Miss Ardfern knows that I know.”
“That was what I was going to say,” said the other. “I usually
followed Miss Ardfern from the theatre to her hotel; from her hotel to
Trasmere’s house, and home again when she had finished working.”
The reporter and detective exchanged glances. This, then, was the
explanation of the mysterious Chinaman who had been seen by Mr. Stott’s
servant waiting outside Mayfield smoking a cigar in the cold hours of
the morning. It explained, also the appearance of the cyclist in the
roadway that morning when the tyres of Ursula Ardfern’s car had burst
and Tab had been on hand to render timely assistance.
“I had no idea,” breathed the astonished girl, “is that true, Yeh Ling?
Oh, how kind you have been.”
Tab saw tears in her eyes and wished that he, and not this
uninteresting Chinaman, had been the person who excited her gratitude.
“Kindness is a relative term,” said Yeh Ling. He had brought his feet
up on a chair and was rolling a cigarette; he had asked permission
with his eyes and as Ursula nodded, he lit it with a quick flick of
his fingers, a match having appeared, as it seemed, out of space, and
carefully replaced the stalk in a match-box. “Was it kindness that
you saved the life of one who is to me the light of my eyes and the
inspiration of my soul, if you will forgive what may seem to you, a
writer, Mr. Holland, a piece of flowery orientalism, but which is to me
the quintessence of sincerity.”
Then without preamble he told his story; a story which was only
half-known to the girl.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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