"Oh good morning," she said in a sharp voice like a saw, "how well you are looking dear Major Tidman—really so very well. I never saw you look younger. The rose in your button-hole is not more blooming. How do you keep your youth so? I remember you—"
But the Major cut her short. He had enough of flattering words which he guessed she did not mean, and didn't want her to remember anything, for he knew her memory extended disagreeably to the time when he had been a poor and humble nobody. "I'm in a hurry Miss Pewsey" he said twirling his stick, "good-morning ma'am—morning."
"If you're going to see Dr. Forge," said Miss Pewsey, her black eyes glittering like jet. "I've just come from his house. He is engaged."
"I can wait I suppose, Miss Pewsey," said Tidman bristling, "that is, supposing I am calling on the doctor."
"Then you really are: not on account of your health I'm sure. I do hope you aren't ill, dear Major. We all look forward to you shining at the ball, which is to take place at the Hotel Bristol."
"I may be there, Miss Pewsey. I may be there—in fact," the Major flourished his stick again, "I am one of the stewards."
Miss Pewsey clapped together a pair of small claws encased in shabby cotton gloves. "There," she cried in a shriller voice than ever. "I knew it. I said so to my Sophia. Of course you know I always call dear Miss Wharf my Sophia; we have been friends for years—oh yes, for years. We grew on one stem and—"
"You'll excuse me, ma'am—"
"Oh yes—I know you are so busy. But I was saying, that you can give me a ticket for my nephew, Mr. Burgh—"
"The tickets are for sale at the hotel," said Tidman gruffly.
"Yes, but my poor nephew is poor. He also has come from foreign parts Major as you did, and just as poor. You must give him a ticket—oh really you must." Miss Pewsey spoke with an emphasis on every other word, and between her teeth as though she was trying to prevent the speech escaping too rapidly. "Now, Major," she coaxed.
"I'll see, ma'am—I'll see."
"Oh. I knew you would." She clasped her hands again, "come and see my Sophia—dear Miss Wharf, and then you can give Clarence—that's my nephew's name, sweet isn't it?—you can give him the ticket. But don't bring him," added Miss Pewsey jerking her old head backward in the direction of Dr. Forge's residence, "he's there."
"Who is there, ma'am?" demanded the Major with a start.
"Why that horrid Mr. Ainsleigh and—"
Miss Pewsey got no further. The Major uttered something naughty under his breath, and taking off his hat with a flourish, bowed his way along the road, pursued by the shrill injunctions of the lady not to forget the ticket.
Tidman walked more rapidly and less jauntily than usual, and stopped at Dr. Forge's gate to wipe his red face, which had now assumed its normal colour.
"By George" said the old soldier, "that woman will marry me, if I don't take care. She ain't safe—she shouldn't be allowed out. Pewsey—a cat—a cat—I always said so. Lavinia Pewsey cat, to Benjamin Tidman gentleman. Not if I know it—ugh—ugh," and he walked up the steps to ring the bell. While waiting, his thoughts went from Miss Pewsey to Rupert. "I thought he had gone to town about that fan business," said the Major fretting, "what's he doing calling on Forge without telling me," and Tidman seemed very much annoyed that Rupert should have taken such a liberty.
True enough, he found young Ainsleigh sitting with Dr. Forge. The doctor was a tall lean man with sad eyes, and a stiff manner. He was dressed in a loose white flannel suit, in a most unprofessional way. But everyone knew that Forge had money and did not practise, save when the fancy took him. With his watchful grey eyes and sad face and lantern jaws, Forge was not a prepossessing object or a medical attendant to be desired. Also his hands had a claw-like look, which, added to his thin hooked nose, made him look like a hawk. He spoke very little though, and what he did say was to the point: but he was not popular like the Major. A greater contrast than this mummy and handsome young Ainsleigh, can scarcely be imagined.
The Major came puffing into the room and looked around. It was a small apartment furnished with Chinese curiosities. Rice-paper painted in the conventional Chinese fashion adorned the walls: a many-tasseled lantern gay with colour, dangled from the roof, and in each corner of the room a fat mandarin squatted on a pedestal. The furniture was of bamboo, and straw matting covered the floor. A bookcase filled with medical volumes looked somewhat out of place in this eastern room, as did the doctor's writing table, a large one covered with papers and books, and strange looking Chinese scrips. The room was as queer as its owner, and the atmosphere had that indescribable eastern smell, which the Major remembered to have sniffed up at Canton under disagreeable circumstances. Perhaps it was the revival of an unpleasant memory that made him sit down so suddenly, or it might have been the cold grey stony eyes of Forge.
"Well Major," said Rupert who looked handsome and gay in flannels, and who seemed to have lost his melancholy looks, "who would have thought of seeing you here?"
"I came to ask Forge to keep the exterior of his house a little more tidy," said the Major with dignity, "the steps have not been cleaned this morning, and there is straw in the garden, while the shrubs and flowers are dying for want of water."
Forge shrugged his thin shoulders, and nodded towards some egg-shell china cups and a quaint looking tea-pot. But he did not speak.
"No," replied the Major to the silent invitation. "I never drink tea in the afternoon—"
"Or at any time," said Forge in a melancholy way. "I know you of old. Ainsleigh, take another cup."
"Not in the Chinese fashion," said Rupert smiling, "you drink it too hot for my taste and I like milk and sugar. But now I've told you about the fan, I'll leave you to chat with Tidman."
"The fan," said Tidman sitting up as straight as his stoutness would let him, "ah yes—I forgot about that. Well?"
"Well," echoed Rupert lighting a cigarette, "I called at the joss house in Perry Street Whitechapel, and a nice sort of den it is. A Chinaman, heard my explanation about my father's connection with Lo-Keong, and then told me that the fan had been stolen from that gentleman, who is now a Mandarin."
"Lo-Keong was well on the way to the highest post when I saw him last" said Forge preparing a roll of tobacco, "he was much in favour at the court."
"But I thought he was a Boxer," said Tidman, "and surely——"
"Oh he gave up the Boxers, and curried favour with the Dowager Empress. That was seven years ago, when I was last in China. I met you there Tidman."
Again the disagreeable recollection of Canton crossed the Major's memory, and he nodded. "What about the fan?" he asked Rupert again.
"It's of great value," said Ainsleigh, "at least this Chinaman told me so. Lo-Keong is now a Mandarin, and is high in favour with the Dowager Empress—"
"And consequently is hated by the Emperor," murmured Forge.
"I don't know, doctor, I'm not up in Chinese politics. However, the fan was lost by Lo-Keong some years ago, and being a sacred fan, he wants it back. This Chinaman Tung-Yu—"
"Oh," said the Major, "then you didn't see Hwei or Kan-su?"
"Those are names of a river and a province," said the doctor.
"I know," snapped Tidman, "but they were in the advertisement."
"Tung-yu explained that they were used only for the purpose of advertisement,"