Mr Ts'èng, and thought I would just step in and tell you, before going on to the magistrate," added the man ominously.
"What is your news?" said Ts'èng, in vain attempting to suppress his apprehensions.
"The old pedlar, Ting, whom you threw down on the pavement, is dead."
If the executioner's axe had at that moment descended on the neck of poor Ts'èng he could not have looked more bereft of life than he did as he threw himself back in his chair at these words. For some seconds his power of speech failed him and at last he gasped out –
"What do you mean? How did he die? Not that it matters to me," he added, with a violent effort to appear calm.
"He came down to my boat to cross the lake," said Lai, looking steadfastly on his victim, "and after we had gone a short way across he appeared to turn faint and giddy, and at last he tumbled off the seat into the bottom of the boat. As quickly as I could I put down my oars to help him up, when I saw it was something worse than a faint, and he had just time to tell me of the scuffle at your door, and that you had pushed him down and killed him, when he fell back dead."
"It is a lie," screamed Ts'èng; "when he left this house he was quite well."
"Well, all I know is," said Lai, "that he is now dead, and that when in the act of death he said you were his murderer. These are some things," he added, holding up Golden-lilies' basket with the roll of silk, "which he had in his hand when he came into the boat."
Ts'èng gazed at these evidences of the truth of the man's story with a fixed and glassy stare, while poor
Golden-lilies stood by with her face in her hands weeping bitterly. In one short day all that had been pleasurable in their existence had been exchanged for blank despair. The morning had opened with bright hopes and brilliant expectations, and now the evening had set in with a black darkness of misery that crushed them to the ground. For some seconds not another word was uttered. But presently Golden-lilies went over to her husband, and taking his hand in hers, whispered something in his ear, which brought a ray of intelligence into his face.
"Yes, you are right; I will try," he faltered.
"You and I have known one another a long time, Lai," he said, "and I am sure you would not do an injury to an old neighbour and friend. This is a bad business, and I swear to you I am not to blame. His foot slipped, and he fell down. It will do you no good to tell any one about it; and if you will keep the secret, I will willingly pay you handsomely. Oh, promise me that you will," said the wretched man, throwing himself at Lai's feet.
Here was a pretty position for a graduate and an expectant mandarin! On his knees at the feet of a common fellow, who did not know one character from another, and who knew as much about Confucius as he did about Mahomet!
"Well, Mr Ts'èng," said Lai, "I don't want to do anything to injure you, but the man died in my boat; so that unless I can explain his death, I shall be charged with the murder."
"Where is he?" gasped poor Ts'èng.
"In my boat," said Lai. "I have anchored it in a quiet place up the river, so that no one should go on board."
