'You always are, my dear,' chuckled her husband. 'But it will be all right. This Chinaman is the very man we want. I told you it was a piece of extraordinary good fortune his writing to me, for there is more to tell you about him. He is a deposed mandarin.'
'I thought no such person existed,' said Mrs. Clayhill quickly. 'A mandarin at fault is a dead mandarin, so far as I have been able to gather.'
'Unless he escapes. Unless he escapes, my dear,' suggested Mr. Ebenezer.
'Escaped. Disguised himself, and made for Canton on a river boat. Then, thanks to his knowledge of English, he was able to ship aboard a vessel sailing for England. Once China was left behind he was safe, and the crafty fellow so contrived matters that it was assumed in his own country that he had become desperate, and had thrown himself into the river. That mandarin, to all intents and purposes, is dead. He can begin life again in China as an altogether different person, without incurring any suspicion. No one, not even the mandarin who had his trial in hand, and who had caused him to be arrested for an attack upon some Europeans would recognise him. Dao Chang is a name which none will associate with Hang Chiou, the mandarin who was to have been beheaded.'
'Attack on Europeans! This man a mandarin, and yet a servant to Europeans,' protested Mrs. Clayhill. 'I am bewildered. There is something missing in your description, Ebenezer.'
It was not at all remarkable that she was to some extent confused, for at the beginning of his tale of this Chinaman, the ruffian, who was the instigator of this attempt to rob David Harbor, had declared that the man had taken service with some Europeans, and could cook, as well as speak English. Then how could he be servant and mandarin at one and the same time? Surely there was an error in the narrative! But Ebenezer smiled cunningly as he noticed his wife's bewilderment, and again spread his hands out in a manner calculated to soothe her. Then he made a dive for his handkerchief, but remembering in time, rubbed both fat members together as if he were washing them. To speak with absolute impartiality the man looked, as he stood there in front of the fire, precisely and exactly what he was. He had the appearance of a mean, sneaking villain, capable of planning the most cunning plot from the security of his fireside, but sure to turn tail and decamp at the first sign of danger. But his wife was blind to his imperfections. Had she been as other women are, no doubt, she would have recoiled from this man. But Mrs. Clayhill was what she was, and guile and cunning pleased her. She went back to her chair, and sat down in the most placid manner, as if she were listening to the most ordinary tale.