Nevertheless Chu Kwong, bound by filial devotion, never lost sight of the fact that it was to this Englishman that his father owed his life. And always his eyes were open, seeking here, seeking the opportunity to pay his father’s debt.
And it came about that one afternoon he called at the Westlake house to escort Lady Miriam to a sale at Christies. The servant put him in the little drawing-room behind which was Westlake’s library.
For a little Chu Kwong sat beside the window looking out into the quiet street. Then growing restless, he rose and began pacing up and down the length of the room. As he neared the folding door leading to the library he heard voices.
Matters of morals and good taste vary greatly. A Chinaman can listen behind a closed door without forfeiting his self-respect. So Chu Kwong stood very still and listened.
A man’s voice that Chu Kwong had never heard before was speaking.
“... and from there we’ll take native boats to the river’s source. The shooting is bound to be good. Will you come, Gregory?”
And Westlake replied:
“Sorry, old chap. Like to and all that. But I–I can’t.”
There was silence for a minute. Then the strange voice broke out, its tones impatient:
“I know what it is. I think that you are hugging your misery to your heart. Forgive me for speaking like this, Gregory, but — well, damn it all, I hate to see a good chap come a cropper because a petticoat can’t see he’s the finest man on two continents.”
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, followed by an exclamation from Westlake:
“Gad, man, it isn’t pretty, is it — to see your pal making all kinds of an ass of himself!”
He laughed. Then his voice became serious.
“But truly you don’t understand. No man could who hadn’t been in the same boat. Miriam is in my blood — like that damnable African fever. And you can’t get rid of it and you can’t forget it — ever. I know I’m not wanted here: wouldn’t even be missed if I trekked anywhere, but — well, I can’t go.”
“See here,” he went on after a short pause, “to no other man on earth would I tell these things. Do you know that sometimes I am almost ready to pray for Miriam’s death, so that once irrevocably separated from her I can pull myself together and be my own man again.”
Then someone entered the library and the conversation ceased.
That evening Chu Kwong sat long and motionless, absorbed in his thoughts. Knowledge, ideas, suggestions that had come to him from hearing Westlake talking to his friend crowded his brain and bewildered him. One by one he sorted them and weighed them and placed them in their proper relationship. And it seemed to him when he was done that his duty was clear.
Then in his whole being there raged a battle between duty and desire. It lasted until the dawn had lighted up the chimney-pots and paled the stars. It left Chu Kwong exhausted, but around his lips there were lines of purpose and determination.
The next morning he visited Li Sing, importer of teas and spices and perhaps a little of the juice of the yellow poppy.
After he and his host had accomplished the necessary ceremonies of greeting, he came to the purpose of his call.
“Li Sing,” he said, “there is a debt of money that you owe my father.”
The other Chinaman moved his huge bulk uneasily. He coughed behind his hand, shaking his head sadly.
“That is true, O elder brother.”
“And you can pay?”
Li Sing grew still more embarrassed.
“My business is poor, son of an illustrious father, and I have no money.”
Chu Kwong’s eyes narrowed.
“Debts may be paid in other ways than with money,” he suggested.
Li Sing’s face brightened.
“What is it that you wish me to do?”
Chu Kwong leaned over him and whispered a sentence or two into his ear.
The other man sprang to his feet.
“No! No!” he cried. “That is impossible.”
“Why?”
Li Sing stretched forth his hands appealingly.
“But can you not see? There is the danger to my life.”
Chu Kwong, sitting as immovable as an idol, looked at him coldly.
“But there is the danger to your honor if you do not do as I have asked,” he said brutally. “Shall your ancestors lose face because you are a cheat and a coward?”
Then Li Sing fell upon his knees and pleaded. But to all his offers and protestations Chu Kwong turned a deaf ear. His eyes were veiled with the mist of incomprehension, as though he could not understand the other’s words.
At last Li Sing rose. He made a little gesture of defeat.
“I will do as you have ordered,” he said quietly.
“That is well,” Chu Kwong replied.
Then he, too, rose and departed.
III
Chu Kwong again stood humbly before his father.
“My father,” he said, “I have paid your debt to the white barbarian and also I have collected that which Li Sing owed you.”
The old man nodded his head gently.
“You have done well, my son. Tell me now the details.”
Chu Kwong cleared his throat.
“I found the white barbarian sick, O my father. And I removed from his person that which was gnawing at his heart. I permitted Li Sing to be my servant in the matter and for his services absolved him from his debt.”
He drew forth a clipping from a London newspaper, and translating slowly, read it to his father:
All London was shocked by the brutal murder of Lady Miriam Westlake. The horrible event took place last night as the deceased was leaving the Haymarket Theatre in the company of her husband. According to witnesses, a short, stout man sprang from the crowd and silently plunged a long knife into her back. In the ensuing excitement the assailant escaped and there was no one who saw his face clearly enough to identify him. Charles Hornby, baker, of Reading, swears that the man was a Chinaman, but Inspector Grant, who is investigating the case, believes this to be highly improbable.
Chu Kwong folded the clipping and returned it to his pocket. Then he looked gravely at his father.
The old man removed the stem of his pipe from between his lips and spat contemplatively.
“I do not quite follow all the details of this matter, my son,” he said. “But undoubtedly you have done well.”
Chu Kwong half turned away.
“And if in paying your debt, O my father, I have paid it partly with my heart’s blood, have I acquired virtue?”
The old man nodded.
“You have acquired great virtue, my son.”
Chu Kwong bowed his head.
“Perhaps that is so,” he said softly.
The Man Who Knew Too Much
by John D. Swain
I
“The trouble with me,” said the last patient of the day, “is that I know too much.”
The statement did not surprise Arbuthnot, the consulting alienist. The patient who had just left his office had assured him that he was perfectly all right save for a glass heart, which he lived in constant terror of cracking by colliding with somebody, or by slipping on a wet pavement.
Before him, there had been a pretty girl bubbling with enthusiasm over a scheme for curing stammerers by intra-venal injections of parrot’s blood. And so it went, every afternoon from two until four. Arbuthnot elevated his brows politely, and gazed upon the pale, emaciated man of sixty-odd who faced him across the wide table.
“You know too much — about what?”
“Everything! Big things, and trifles. All my senses are abnormally keen. Without in the least wishing to do so, I overheard all your conversation with the patients who preceded me, through your soundproof door. Coming downtown, I passed seven hundred and thirteen pedestrians; and I could describe each one so minutely that any reasonably intelligent police officer could identify him at sight. On the street cars, I can hear the ticking of every watch, and distinguish the minute differences in beat and pitch. Yesterday I rode for two miles along the principal business street of a Jersey city. I can write out for you every sign, every scrap of lettering on the shop fronts of the side I was facing, along the entire route. When I smell a perfume, I at once identify each of the dozen or more coal-tar derivatives from which it has been built up.”