gripped him by the shoulders he would have been bowled over like a ninepin.
There was no mistaking the individual. I had marked his peculiar figure; the nondescript fashion of his dress—a long black coat, made, apparently, of alpaca, reaching to his heels; a soft black felt hat so much too large for his head that it almost covered his eyes. He was a foreigner, undersized, unnaturally thin.
“Well, my man, what can I do for you?” He did not reply. His countenance assumed an expression of vacuous imbecility. I shook him gently, to spur his wits. “Do you hear, what can I do for you? Since you have taken the trouble to follow me all this way, I suppose there is important business which you wish to transact with me.”
The fellow said nothing. Whether he understood I could not say. He evidently wished me to believe that he did not, shaking his head, as if he had no tongue. I took him for a Chinaman, though he was darker than I imagine Chinamen are wont to be. His two little bead-like eyes burned out of two small round holes, in circumference scarcely larger than a sixpence. Eyebrows or eyelashes he had none. His skin was scarred by smallpox.
Since, apparently, nothing could be done with him, I let him go. So soon as my hand was off him he darted into the Strand like some eager wild thing. After momentary hesitation I went to see what had become of him. Already the traffic had swallowed him up. He was out of sight.
Gregory Pryor was in when I called the second time. I laid the God of Fortune down before him on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a joss.”
“A joss?” The promptness of his reply took me aback. “I thought a joss was an idol.”
