At very nearly the hour of his former visit, Gregory Ballaston entered the warehouse of Messrs. Johnson and Company, on the following morning. Wu Ling, seated at his table, waved away the stolid-looking native foreman to whom he was giving orders, and glanced enquiringly at his visitor.

“Ship not gone?” he asked.

“We don’t sail until the afternoon,” Gregory reminded him. “Haven’t got all our fresh stores shipped, or something. I came back to have a talk. Do you mind?”

Wu Ling’s gesture was noncommittal. The young man continued.

“Last night,” he confided, sinking into a chair, “I unpacked my Image. I took it out and looked at it, with my porthole closed and my door locked, although I imagine that now that the priests are dead there is no fear of my being followed.—Wu Ling, I wish to God that you were an Englishman!”

“Why for?”

“I could talk to you more easily.”

There was a brief silence. Wu Ling, stolid, powerful, imperturbable, sat with his keen enquiring eyes fixed upon his visitor. Gregory showed signs of some slight relapse from his well-being of the day before. His natural, bronzed complexion which had almost reasserted itself, seemed to have given place again to the pallor which denoted a sleepless night. There were lines under his eyes, a restlessness in his manner.

“You found Image bad company?” Wu Ling enquired.

“I hate the beastly thing already,” Gregory acknowledged.

Wu Ling clapped his hands softly together. The screen of bamboos was pushed to one side and Mr. Endacott appeared. He had discarded his European clothes in favour of the dress of a native Chinese gentleman, and he carried a white umbrella.

“Our young friend again,” he remarked, with a brief salutation.

Wu Ling pointed to a chair.

“He wish talk to you.”

Mr. Endacott glanced at his watch before he sat down.

“I am about to visit the head of the Chinese University here,” he announced. “A man of rare intelligence and great learning! Why should I waste my time? Have you found the jewels in your Image, Mr. Ballaston?”

“Not a sign of them up to the present, sir,” Gregory admitted. “I am not very happy about them, either. As you know, the whole thing was a pretty dangerous enterprise, and I’ve only half succeeded. The Image is heavy enough, but I can’t see any possible aperture anywhere.”

“The recovery of the jewels,” Mr. Endacott remarked, leaning a little forward, with his hands clasped upon the knob of his umbrella, “was scarcely likely to be a simple matter.”

“I realise that,” Gregory confessed. “Already I am beginning to feel a sort of hatred of the thing. For the first time last night,” he went on, “I felt inclined to take seriously what Wu Ling here and you have said of these Images; that neither of them has any real existence separately. Side by side they have looked down upon that procession of worshippers through all these years. Side by side they must be, you have told me, according to the superstition, if the jewels are to be found.”

Mr. Endacott inclined his head.

“Our young friend is showing signs of intelligence,” he admitted. “He is beginning to travel along the lines of the allegory.”

“If this is true,” Gregory asked bluntly, “what is the use of my taking one to England and leaving the other here in this warehouse?”

“The only reason for such a course seems to be,” his companion murmured, “that one does not belong to you. Perhaps you can trade with the firm. I myself am not a trader. Wu Ling is. Wu Ling, I am sure, is at your disposal.”

“How can I trade?” Gregory demanded. “What do you suppose brought me out here on an enterprise like this? Love of adventure a good deal, I grant you, but, behind it all, sheer and absolute need of money. We are poor in England to-day, Mr. Endacott, we people with estates. I haven’t the money to buy your Image. After my experience of last night I would rather consider an offer from you for mine.”

Wu Ling smiled. He talked for a moment in Chinese to his companion. The latter showed signs of agreement.

“Wu Ling’s attitude is mine,” Mr. Endacott pronounced. “If by any chance you had acquired the statue we possess and we had yours, the firm of Johnson and Company would trade. Not now. We are content.”

“Then you don’t believe in your own allegory?” Gregory queried.

Wu Ling was looking into the dark recesses of the warehouse. There was nothing to indicate that he had heard or understood, but it was he who replied.

“Yes, I believe in it,” he admitted. “We both believe in it, but we have many jewels and I think that these will be hard to find.”

“If you had both the Images,” Gregory suggested, “you could break them up.”

Mr. Endacott raised his hand to his forehead as though in pain. Wu Ling’s expression appeared unchanged. Yet somehow or other he gave one the impression of having listened with distaste to words of blasphemy.

“You speak like a huckster from the new cities,” Mr. Endacott said wearily. “They are great works of art, these Images, sanctified by the years, alive by virtue of their greatness. To raise a hand against them would be barbarous. Besides, Wu Ling and I believe the legend. We believe that those will die who treat the Images roughly.”

Gregory remained discontented. He took a cigarette from the large wooden box which Wu Ling pushed towards him. The box was of some sort of sandalwood, but it, too, seemed to give out the peculiar odour of the place.

“Last night,” he confided, “when I sat alone with my Image, it came back to me how my father himself had insisted upon the necessity for securing both Images. He too must have been impressed by the legend. He’ll think my errand a failure if I return with one.”

“Without money how buy?” Wu Ling asked. “Johnson and Company, we are traders. For gold we sell anything on earth. Without gold, how can buy?”

“It is a problem,” Gregory admitted gloomily.

“You had, perhaps, a proposition?” Mr. Endacott suggested.

“Something of the sort. That is why I came to see you this morning. I wondered whether you would let me take your Image to England with mine, and, whilst they were together, have them examined in the British Museum, and see if any possible trace of opening or access to the interior of them is to be found? Of course, I shall do that with mine when I get there, anyhow, but you see I am beginning to fall in line with your superstition. I feel that both Images ought to be treated at the same time.”

“And if the jewels should be discovered?” Mr. Endacott enquired.

“We would divide equally,” was Gregory’s prompt proposal.

Wu Ling, a man not given to gestures, beat the air in front of him gently with the fingers of his hands.

“We would not agree,” he said. “I would not agree. Mr. Endacott would not agree. Our partner, who is not here, would not agree.”

Gregory frowned. He followed Wu Ling’s steadfast gaze, followed it into the further recesses of the second warehouse. He began to think of the Image he had lost, the Image in the steel chamber. A sense of its beauty suddenly possessed him. He coveted it passionately.

“In a way,” he ventured, “the Image which you have locked up there, the Image which you call the Soul, rather belongs to me, don’t you think? I have, at least, a claim upon it. I fought to secure it. My friend lost his life in defending it.”

Wu Ling’s smile was almost a genuine effort at mirth. Mr. Endacott chuckled sardonically.

“If I were you, young man,” he advised, “I don’t think that I would pursue that line of argument.”

“It was stolen property,” Gregory persisted doggedly.

“And the stolen property was stolen,” Mr. Endacott reminded him.

There was a silence. An impasse seemed to have been reached. It seemed indeed as though there were nothing more to be done, no further argument he could use. Yet Gregory Ballaston sat as though rooted to the spot. To leave the place with his desire unattained seemed almost a physical impossibility. Then, unexpectedly, Wu Ling spoke at some length.

“What you come here to say,” he began, “has reason. You come here with an idea which is right. Body and Soul you cannot part. Your Image without that one which belongs to Johnson and Company is a thing of evil. The Image we have locked in our treasure chamber is a thing of great beauty, and no more. You who desire the jewels cannot buy. We, to whom the jewels mean little, will not sell. Listen to me, young gentleman. I propose something.”

“Go on,” Gregory begged eagerly.

“You,” Wu Ling continued, “have a quality of the Chinese in you, or you would not have risked life for this adventure. You are gambler. Me too. I offer this. I will gamble with you for the two Images.”

Gregory Ballaston held his cigarette away from his mouth and stared at the speaker. Temporarily, at any rate, his nonchalance had left him.

“Are you in earnest?” he demanded.

Wu Ling nodded gravely. Gregory glanced towards the professor. The latter also inclined his head gently.

“If Wu Ling says so,” he murmured.

“Gamble! But how? What games do we both know?”

“There is a Chinese game,” Wu Ling began——

“Not having any,” Gregory interrupted drily. “I have heard of these Chinese games. What about poker?”

“Not understand,” Wu Ling regretted.

Gregory sat for a moment or two deep in disturbed thought. More than anything he had ever coveted in the world he coveted that other Image.

“Look here,” he decided at last, “I accept. But we don’t need to play a game at all. Send for a pack of cards, have them well shuffled and deal a card to each of us. The highest wins.”

Wu Ling nodded approvingly.

“It is simple,” he assented. “We do that. If you win, my porters shall pack Image and you can take it to ship. If you lose you bring yours here.”

Gregory moistened his lips which were already a little dry.

“It is agreed,” he said.

Wu Ling opened one of the lower drawers of his desk. He searched for a few moments and then produced an ordinary pack of playing cards. He laid them upon the table.

“In here?” Gregory demanded, glancing at the silent forms, always moving around them.

“Why not?” Wu Ling replied. “What we do is nothing to them. They see nothing. They work.”

Mr. Endacott chuckled as he took the cards in his hands and shuffled them.

“You will lose, young man,” he warned Gregory. “I’ve seen a great many games of cards in this city, but I have never yet seen a European who could hold his own against a Chinese.”

“This isn’t a game,” Gregory pointed out. “It’s just a show-down. My chance must be as good as his. We’ll make it the best of three, though.”

“How?” Wu Ling queried politely.

“A card each three times,” his partner explained, “and the one who wins twice out of three times gets the Images. It appears to me that I too am rather largely interested in this. Any choice as to who turns the first card up?”

Gregory shook his head, cut the cards which were handed to him, and passed them to Wu Ling. The latter hesitated only for the fraction of a second. Then he threw one card to his opponent and one to himself. Gregory’s card was a knave; his own a queen.

“One up to the firm,” Mr. Endacott observed.

Gregory took the cards. His hands were beginning to shake. He gave his opponent a four. He himself threw down a ten.

“One each,” he exclaimed, trying his best to keep his tone level.

He shuffled and passed the cards across once more. Wu Ling sat for a moment toying with them, almost as though in silent prayer. Then he threw a card to Gregory.

“A king!” the latter cried exultantly.

“And the firm has an ace,” Mr. Endacott pointed out, as Wu Ling’s card fell upon the table.

Gregory sat staring at it, motionless and rigid, the light of triumph fading from his face. There had been gamblers in his family, though, and heredity asserted itself. He rose calmly to his feet.

“I’ll go down and pack the Image,” he said.

Wu Ling clapped his hands. His expression had never varied. He showed no signs, even of content.

“There will be porters who attend you,” he announced. “They will follow your ’rickshaw and bring back the Image.”

Gregory held out his hand, even then scarcely realising the position. All this risk and privation for nothing, his friend’s life for nothing, all gone on the turn of a card. For a moment the place with its strange atmosphere seemed unreal, his adventure a nightmare. Then he heard Wu Ling giving orders to the foreman and saw him point to the harbour. He choked down his feelings.

“I shall not sympathise with you,” Mr. Endacott said, as he shook hands. “Your enterprise has never commended itself to me, and your possession of the Body without the Soul was never a thing to be envied.”

Gregory could not trust himself to reply. He held out his hand to Wu Ling, who took it gravely.

“At least, Wu Ling,” he said, “if you have spoilt my trip out here, you saved my life. I don’t think it’s worth much, but I thank you. Send the porters along.”

He turned and left the place; a tall, slim figure, graceful and trim in his well-fitting clothes, the strangest contrast to the blue-smocked coolies and one or two native traders through whom he had almost to push his way. He walked out into the broiling sun and disappeared.

Mr. Endacott glanced at Wu Ling, and Wu Ling, with the cards in his hand, smiled back at him.

The morning wore on, the afternoon came and passed. Mr. Endacott, who had spent a pleasant few hours with his Chinese friend, returned to find repose reigning throughout the rambling premises of Messrs. Johnson and Company. A fierce sun had suddenly blazed once more through the drifting masses of mist—gone now, as breath from a looking-glass. The water in the harbour was indigo blue, the junks and dhows and native fishing craft were all becalmed, like painted ships upon a still ocean. The sirens blew no more. All who could were at rest. The porters in the warehouse had crept into the dark shady corners and lay there motionless. Half a dozen clerks, young men of superior station who wore European clothes and babbled a little English, had retired to the shelter of an adjoining tea house. Only Wu Ling sat still in his place, waiting. Mr. Endacott took in the situation at a glance.

“They have not returned, our porters?” he enquired.

“Not yet.”

“And the ship sails?”

“It is past due.”

Endacott smiled.

“The truth is as old as life,” he said. “The things which are written here are written behind the veil. That young man came from what, from a Western point of view, we used to think good stock. His father was under me at Oxford. His grandfather and generations before him were men of good repute. Still, that counts for nothing, and we know why. He has the Body. Why wait, Wu Ling?”

“You think that his word it is broken,” the latter asked, “broken to us who scorned even to watch him to the ship?”

Mr. Endacott shook his head.

“He has the Body,” he repeated.

There was a pattering of feet outside; feet that passed swiftly across the pavement of blistered heat. A little troop of porters entered and sought shelter. The foreman advanced and stood silent before Wu Ling’s desk.

“Speak,” Wu Ling directed.

“We waited on the dock,” the man recounted. “We waited in the heat. Hours went by. Then, as the ship moved away, the Englishman leaned over the rail. He called out to us, ‘There is nothing to send back.’ Then he disappeared.”

“So you returned,” Wu Ling murmured.

“So we returned,” the man assented.

Wu Ling rose to his feet and stood at the window. There was a clamour of sirens blowing through the sultry, stagnant air, a waving of handkerchiefs from a distant dock. A great steamer was drifting out, her bows set westward. Wu Ling watched her gathering speed through the lazy sea, leaving behind her a wake like a rope of snow in the deep blue of the waters which she parted. The smoke belched from her funnels. Somewhere on board her was Gregory Ballaston and his booty. Endacott laid his hand upon the arm of Wu Ling whom he loved.

“The young man has done ill,” he said, “but the Soul is ours.”