"Oh, the gardener!" he said as one would say "Oh, fiddlesticks!" The gardener had been her first thought. But now she rose uneasily, since she saw it was not he, asking herself, "Who else, at such an hour?" By this time Chatworth, still seated, had caught sight of it. "Hello," he said, "what sort of a thing is that?" It was a short, shabby, nondescript little figure, shuffling rapidly along the winding walk between the rose bushes. Now they saw the top of his round black felt hat. Now only a twinkling pair of legs. Now, around the last clump of bushes he appeared full length, and, suddenly dropping his businesslike shuffle, approached them at a languid walk. Flora grasped Chatworth's arm in nervous terror. "Tell him to go," she whispered; "make him go away." The blue-eyed Chinaman was planted before them stolidly, with the curious blind look of his guarded eyes blinking in his withered face. He wore for the first time the blouse of his people, and his hands were folded in his sleeves. "Who's this?" said Chatworth, appealing to Flora. At this the Chinaman spoke. "Mr. Crew," he croaked. The Englishman, looking from the Oriental to Flora, still demanded explanations with expostulating gesture. "It is the man who sold us the sapphire," she whispered; and "Oh, what does he want of you?" "Eh?" said Chatworth, interrogating the goldsmith with his monocle. "What do you want?" The little man finished his long, and, what had seemed his blind, stare; then dived into his sleeve. He drew forth a crumpled thing which seemed to be a pellet and this he proceeded to unfold. Flora crept cautiously forward, loath to come near, but curious, and saw him spread out and hold up a roughly torn triangle of newspaper. She gave a cry at sight of it. Across the top in thick black type ran the figures $20,000. Chatworth pointed a stern forefinger. "What is it?" he said, though by his tone he knew. The Chinaman also pointed at it, but cautious and apologetic. "Twenty thousand dollar. You likee twenty thousand dollar?" He waited a moment. Then, with a glimmer as of returning sight, presented the alternative. "You likee god?--little joss?--come so?" And with his finger he traced in the air a curve of such delicate accuracy that the Englishman with an exclamation made a step toward him. But the Chinaman did not move. "Twenty thousand dollar," he stated. It sounded an impersonal statement, but nevertheless it was quite evident this time to whom it applied. The Englishman measured off his words slowly as if to an incomplete understanding, which Flora was aware was all too miraculously quick. "This little god, this ring--do you know where it is? Can you take me to it?" The goldsmith nodded emphatically at each word, but when all was said he only reiterated, "Twenty thousand dollar."