At half-past twelve on the following morning Mr. Peter Johnson, dressed in a blue serge suit and patent shoes—a costume which, after much deliberation, he deemed suitable for the enterprise on which he was bent—mounted his two-seated car, drove through the village, exchanging polite greetings with one or two of his recent acquaintances, and, after a moment’s wait at the lodge gates, proceeded at a subdued pace along the winding road which crossed the park and up through the great avenue to the front entrance of the Hall. He left his automobile in a secluded place and found the door open as he mounted the steps. Rawson, unrecognising, stony of face and feature, took his name. A footman relieved him of his hat and gloves. Another subordinate, lurking in the background, threw open the door of the library, into which the visitor was ushered.

“Mr. Johnson,” the man announced.

Henry Ballaston came forward and greeted his guest with punctilious cordiality. Then he turned to his brother who had been lounging on the hearth-rug, reading a newspaper, but who now came forward with outstretched hand.

“This is my brother, Sir Bertram Ballaston—Mr. Johnson, our new tenant at the Great House.”

The two men shook hands; Mr. Johnson a little formally; his host with an indifferent but pleasant courtesy. Sir Bertram had grown somewhat thinner, perhaps, during the last twelve months of ever increasing financial anxiety. His eyes seemed a trifle sunken and the weariness of his mouth was a little more pronounced. His smile, however, as he unbent, was as ingratiating as ever and his voice as insinuating.

“I am very glad to have this opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “You will excuse my having commissioned my brother to represent the family. I happened to be engaged for some days and we were anxious not to delay making your acquaintance.”

“Your brother was very welcome,” was the prompt assurance. “Very kind and neighbourly of you to look me up at all. I am a complete stranger here and, I may add, to England.”

“Indeed,” Sir Bertram murmured civilly. “Might one enquire then, whilst congratulating ourselves upon your choice, what made you select this particular part of the world for your abode?”

“Every one seems to ask me that question,” Mr. Johnson observed. “I imagine there was a certain amount of chance about it. I wished to settle down in England for a time and from all I had heard I thought Norfolk the most suitable locality. I went to an agent in Norwich, found this house at what I considered a very low rental and established myself.”

“And why not indeed?” Sir Bertram demanded approvingly. “For any one who wishes to live a really retired life amongst rural surroundings a better choice could scarcely be made.—I am afraid, Mr. Johnson, that we cannot offer you anything in the way of a modern apÉritif. If a glass of Amontillado sherry pleases you I think that you will find this drinkable. My father was reputed to be a judge.”

Rawson, who had entered with a tray, poured out three glasses from a bottle reclining in a cradle, with something approaching reverence in his manner. Mr. Johnson accepted the sherry and drank wine such as he had never tasted before. Just as he was setting the glass down, the door opened and Gregory entered. He came forward with all his father’s grace but a little more impetuously.

“This is my son Gregory,” Sir Bertram announced. “Mr. Johnson, Gregory—our new tenant.”

Gregory’s expression, as he had advanced to meet his father’s guest, had been one of polite but somewhat indifferent curiosity. He suddenly stopped short, however. The light of amazed recognition flashed in his eyes. For a brief period of time he was absolutely speechless.

“I am happy to meet you,” Mr. Johnson said.

Gregory’s hand for a moment sought his throat. The blank look of non-recognition in the face of this suave, smooth-faced man was arresting. Yet such a likeness could scarcely be possible. His brain was still confused, afire with a surge of memories of that still, oily river, the merciless sun, his flesh-biting bonds; afterwards the quiet, cool warehouse, with its pungent odours, its jumble of merchandise, its sombre silences. He became suddenly conscious of his father’s surprise, of Henry’s questioning frown.

“Surely,” he ventured at last, “we have met before?”

Mr. Johnson shook his head slowly.

“Not within my recollection,” he acknowledged.

There was another, although a briefer silence, a matter now only of seconds, but intense whilst it lasted. Gregory, looking a trifle dazed, held out his hand. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the other’s face and the wonder had never left them.

“So sorry to seem such an idiot,” he murmured politely, “but even now I am a little bewildered. We didn’t meet fifteen months ago in China—Wu Ling—the firm of Johnson and Company?”

The visitor shook his head. His smile was good-natured, but, to a keen observer, a little sphinxlike. His eyes never wavered.

“You are mistaking me for some one else,” he said. “My name is certainly Johnson, but it is not an uncommon one and I am quite sure that this is our first meeting.”

“It is my memory which is at fault, then,” Gregory observed, relapsing with an effort into his usual self. “Glad to welcome you here, Mr. Johnson. Rawson, am I to be allowed a glass of the sherry? Good! I need it.”

Luncheon was served with a certain measured but not ungraceful ceremony. The food was excellent and, although the fact was not alluded to, the guest of the meal, who possessed an instinctive appreciation of such things, realised that he was drinking cabinet hock of an almost extinct vintage. Conversation never flagged, but it was conducted upon a level and in a spirit which were a little difficult to the visitor. There was no attempt at humour or story telling. Even personal reminiscences and questionings of all sorts were eschewed. There were grave remarks about politics, county affairs, the prospects of the forthcoming shooting season. Mr. Johnson ventured to express once more his hope of renting a little shooting himself.

“I am afraid,” his host regretted, “that such a thing is out of the question for the moment. The Ballaston shooting extends for some distance in every direction, and I do not allow my tenant farmers to concede their sporting rights. We shall, of course, be happy for you to shoot with us, whenever you feel inclined, but from the point of view of sport I fear that you have chosen a somewhat unfavourable neighbourhood. I speak of the immediate present. In the near future there may be changes.”

“The matter does not greatly concern me,” was the equable reply. “I have shot birds and beasts in different places, but I do not pretend to be a sportsman. I shall find a great deal of occupation in my garden, in country walks and motoring.”

“I was telling my son this morning,” Sir Bertram observed, “that I consider our agent, Mr. Borroughes, was very much to blame for not having told you the inner history of the Great House before you took it.”

“It would, perhaps, have been better,” Mr. Johnson admitted. “At the same time it would have made no difference to my plans. Were you, by-the-by, personally acquainted with my unfortunate predecessor?”

“We had exchanged some few civilities,” Sir Bertram replied. “Our acquaintance, however, was nothing but that slight affair which exists between neighbours. But for the unfortunate tragedy which occurred we should probably have become more intimate. Mr. Endacott happened to be a brother of an old friend of mine—the Comtesse de Fourgenet, who resides at the Little House. It was for that reason, I imagine, that he elected to settle down in this neighbourhood.”

“There was a niece,” Mr. Johnson ventured.

“A very charming young person,” Sir Bertram conceded. “She naturally enough left the neighbourhood very soon afterwards. I understand, however, that she is expected shortly on a visit to the Little House.”

Luncheon drew towards its close. A very wonderful port was served and drunk, after preliminary encomiums, in respectful silence. Sir Bertram rose to his feet.

“We shall find cigars and coffee in the library, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “If I cannot persuade you to drink another glass of wine we might, perhaps, rise.”

The four men left the room together. The guest of the morning, on his way across the hall, looked about him with an interest which was entirely genuine, for in his way he was a lover of beautiful things. Gregory drew his attention to a famous picture opposite the foot of the staircase and detained him until they became temporarily detached from the others. After a casual reference, indifferently voiced, to a world-famous old master his tone suddenly changed. It was intense, curiously vibrant.

“I must ask you once more,” he said quietly,—“I must ask you this—Mr. Johnson. Do you remember a man—a brave fellow he was—who used to trade up the Yun-Tse River amongst the villages? Wu Ling, they called him.”

“Wu Ling?” Mr. Johnson repeated. “A Chinaman?”

“He passed as such,” Gregory admitted. “He might have been anything. His name even might have been Johnson.”

The tenant of the Great House smiled tolerantly.

“Wu Ling,” he commented, “is a very nice name. On the whole I prefer it to my own. Mine is and always has been Johnson—Peter Johnson—Peter Johnson of New York.”

Gregory led the way towards the library. It seemed to him that there was nothing more to be said.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I am pretty good at faces, as a rule, and I never thought I could make a mistake about this one. Glad to hear you are a neighbour, Mr. Johnson. We shall find the others in here.”

He threw open the door of the library and ushered in his companion. His father and uncle were talking together with their coffee cups in their hands. They abandoned their conversation precipitately as the door opened.

“I was afraid,” Sir Bertram said, “that Gregory was commencing to show you the pictures. You would find that rather a lengthy undertaking.”

“An undertaking which would interest me very much,” Mr. Johnson declared. “I understand that one day a week visitors are permitted to see over the Hall. I shall venture to present myself with the crowd.”

“There is no necessity for you to do anything of the sort,” Sir Bertram assured him. “My housekeeper will be glad to show you over at any time. Some of the paintings in the gallery are generally considered to be quite worth inspection, and our tapestries are famous. The chapel has a screen which, personally, I think the most beautiful in Norfolk. Perhaps you would care to see it after you have drunk your coffee.”

“I should like to very much,” Mr. Johnson confessed.

Sir Bertram remained a courteous but reserved host, Henry, with strenuous effort, imparting now and then a note of greater intimacy to the conversation. Gregory remained silent though restless. After they had finished their coffee, they glanced at some of the tapestries and Sir Bertram led the way towards the chapel. They passed through the smaller library which Henry claimed as his own.

“This is my little sanctum,” he announced. “My brother leaves most matters connected with the estate in my charge, and this is where I deal with them before they pass on to Mr. Borroughes.”

The visitor looked curiously around the lofty but somewhat severe apartment, with its neatly arranged shelves of catalogues, its piles of volumes of reference, its letter cases and many evidences of business detail. An exceptionally large writing table filled the window recess, on which stood a single bronze statue, several curios, a blotter and a massive stationery rack. On the right-hand side the window panelling took a wide, inward sweep, leaving a space, half platform, half pedestal. In the centre stood a fine china bowl, filled with deep red roses; on either side—the Body and the Soul.

Mr. Johnson gazed first at one of the Images, then at the other, speechless, expressionless, but absorbed. All the cynical vice and grotesque wickedness of the one leered at him from the left-hand side of those drooping roses; from the right the kindly benevolent face of a saint seemed to breathe out a strange atmosphere of peace and sanctity. Mr. Johnson made no comment, attempted no criticism, yet his very silence was in its way suggestive.

Gregory watched him with eager interest, conscious of a surging resurrection of certain vague, far-fetched suspicions.

In the background Henry Ballaston, though his face showed no sign of emotion, also watched. It was his movement which dispelled those few seconds of paralysed silence. His voice, always a pleasant one notwithstanding its formal note, was softer and lower even than usual, but there was a curious glint in his cold blue eyes.

“You find our miniature Buddhas interesting, Mr. Johnson?” he asked.

The tenant of the Great House did not at first appear to hear him. His eyes were fixed almost to rigidity.

“Both here!” he muttered. “Both!”

The effect of his exclamation was disconcerting. His three companions closed in a little upon him. There was something menacing about their silence.

“Both?” Sir Bertram repeated at last, with the air of a puzzled man.

Mr. Johnson appeared to awake from his lethargy.

“Say, it seems to me,” he remarked, lapsing into his first Americanism, “that those two ought to be worth a great sum of money. I’ve seen photographs of them when I was travelling in the East. They were stolen from a temple, somewhere in China, I think it was. Miniature Buddhas, aren’t they?”

“Stolen!” Sir Bertram murmured.

“Stolen!” Gregory echoed.

“This is very interesting,” Henry declared. “They came into our possession in a somewhat unusual fashion. You think that in the first instance they were probably stolen?”

Mr. Johnson withdrew his eyes from them at last.

“I should say they surely were,” he agreed. “I saw a photograph of them in an American magazine about twelve months ago, with a gigantic Buddha between them. They were quoted as having been stolen and being for some reason or other, which I have forgotten, immensely valuable. Columns of it there were, I remember. The young American who started out to get them was discovered with his throat cut in the train from Pekin southwards. Nobody seemed to know what had become of the Images.”

There was a brief silence; a sudden, almost unaccountable lessening of the tension of the last few minutes. Mr. Johnson loomed no longer as a sinister figure of fate.

“The circumstances under which we came into possession of these Images,” Henry intervened, “would seem to preclude the idea of their being the ones referred to in your magazine article. Still, the story is interesting.”

Mr. Johnson turned away without further comment. The subject of the Images was exhausted. The screen in the chapel beyond was inspected. Presently he took a formal leave of his hosts.

“We shall hope to see more of you, Mr. Johnson,” Sir Bertram said, as he accompanied him on to the terrace. “We do not entertain much at present, but my son will be giving some farewell shooting parties before his departure abroad. We shall hope to number you amongst our guests.”

“Very kind of you, I am sure,” Mr. Johnson replied, climbing into his car and thrusting in his clutch. “My visit and brief glimpse of your treasures has been most enjoyable. Good day, Sir Bertram. Good day, gentlemen.”

He drove off. They stood watching him pass through the iron gates into the park. Sir Bertram waved his hand light-heartedly, but neither of the other two indulged in any farewell salute.

“An ordinary sort of fellow, but harmless, I believe,” Sir Bertram pronounced.

“There were moments when I thought otherwise, but on the whole I am inclined to agree with you,” Henry conceded, after a moment’s reflection.

Gregory’s thoughts were too confused for speech. He watched the car until it became a speck in the distance. Then he turned away and followed the others into the house.