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“Candles for the party,” he laughed. “Fifty little pink candles.”
Fifty! I stared at him there in that dim-lit car. Fifty—why, the eld boy must be seventy if he was a day. Did he hope by this silly ruse to win back his middle age, in our eyes at least? Or—wait a minute! Was he only fifty, after all? If rumor were true he had lived while he lived—a wild reckless life. Perhaps that life had played a trick upon him—had made his fifty look like seventy.
We drew up before my hotel, and Hung Chin-chung was instantly on the sidewalk with my bags.
“I’ll send the car for you at seven,” Drew said. “We’ll have a merry party. Don’t fail me.”
I thanked him, and amid muttered au revoirs the car went on its way. Standing on the curb beside an imposing carriage starter I stared after it. This was incredible! My first night back on
