By
Frank
Owen
TheLong Still Streets of Evening
Heading by A. R. Tilburne
Before ringing the doorbell of the great house on the Avenue, Ives Cranston gazed furtively about him. The street was almost deserted although the evening was still young. Gay automobiles hummed past and occasional buses lumbered down toward the Square. Across the street was Central Park like a peaceful green carpet spread out in the throbbing turmoil of the city.
Ives Cranston was fastidiously dressed, not flashily but in perfect taste. He was tall and rather good-looking. Handsome would be too strong a word but he was not unattractive.
Again he gazed furtively up and down the street. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Evidently he had arrived at some sort of a decision, for he rang the bell. It boomed out sonorously through the rooms as though searching for the dwellers hidden beyond those massive walls.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a Chinese servant who was attired in Occidental formal evening dress. He bowed
low as he bade the visitor to enter.
A suggestion of burning pungent incense
made fragrant the great halls.
“I believe the Honorable Chang Kien is
expecting me,” began Cranston.
“My master is in the library,” was the
reply.
“Will you acquaint him with the fact that
Ives Cranston of Chicago awaits the pleasure
of an interview?”
“My master has instructed me to lead you
into his presence at once.” The man although
undoubtedly Chinese spoke as easily
and as fluently as though he were native-born.
He led the way down a wide spacious
hall, a hall carpeted in velvet and dimly
lighted by iridescent yellow-orange lamps.
At the end of the hall was a doorway hidden
by soft rich curtains. The servant, whose
name was Shung Kung, held the draperies
aside as Ives Cranston entered. The room
in which he now found himself was very
long and very wide. At one end was a
massive open fireplace, a fireplace so huge
that it seemed capable of holding a trunk
of an entire tree at one time. There was no
fire burning although a great log lay upon
the irons ready to be consumed by the flames
whenever necessity demanded. The room
was cozy and comfortable, there were many
books spread about on the tables and also
many lamps. Near every chair there was
a lamp and near every lamp there were a
quantity of books. Scattered about the room
were vases filled with flowers, wistaria,
roses, carnations and sweet jasmine, whose
fragrance hung like a caress on the air.
Chank Kien sat in a great armchair before
the fireplace. He rose as Ives Cranston
entered. Cranston reflected that he had
seldom seen a man so handsome despite
his evident Mongolian extraction. His face
although it had a yellow-olive cast, was
almost white. His lips were well-formed,
well-formed also was his aquiline nose
but it was his splendid eyes that were his
chief attraction. They were dark, as dark
as night shadows but they were more brilliant
than crystals in sunlight. They were
extremely expressive, reflecting his every
mood except when he did not wish his
thoughts to be known. Then the fires died
down in them, as though at the command
of his will they had been banked, leaving
them sombre and brooding. He was faultlessly
attired in a Tuxedo suit. His hands
were thin and expressive. On one finger he
wore an amethyst which glowed like a
purple sunset. In his own country he was a
powerful mandarin.
After greetings had been exchanged,
Chang Kien motioned his guest to be seated.
“I was just drinking a cup of pearl-orchid
scented tea,” he said, “perhaps you might
care to join me. There is no more charming
method of binding friendship than for companions
to quaff tea together.”
As he spoke he poured out a tiny cupful
of the amber fluid.
“Small though the cup is,” he mused,
“the strength it contains is vast.”
Ives Cranston lifted the fragile cup to his
lips and sipped the tea. It was odd, slightly
sweet in taste but not unpleasant. As
Cranston slowly consumed the beverage
Chang Kien plunged into a discussion of
literature which was distinctly charming.
His enunciation was perfect and the tone
of his voice was like rare music. He talked
of the charm of single words, of groups of
words and tiny verses and quoted snatches
of songs from old Chinese poets.
The wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow flowers.
She sits all night by the cold lamp until the moon melts into the dawn.
The sages and worthies of old times
Have left not a sound,
Only those who drank
Have achieved lasting fame.
So he quoted on and on, bits of verse,
broken bits of sentences that aroused pleasurable
thoughts within him. At first Ives
Cranston was delighted with his drolleries
but as the hours passed he commenced to
grow uneasy.
Finally, when for a moment his host
lapsed into silence, he said abruptly, “I
could listen to you endlessly were it not for
the fact that I am pressed for time. Literature
has always appealed to me, and poetry
I have always adored. But I have come all the way from Chicago to behold the Gobi
Diamond which you have advertised for sale
throughout the country. Legends about it
are cropping up everywhere, even in the
wind that blows through the wheatlands.”
Chang Kien rose to his feet. He was all
apologies. “Forgive me for forgetting your
purpose here,” he said, “but when my mind
is plunged in literature it is as though I walk
in a sweet dream. Lovely words are jewels
more gorgeous than any precious stone. They
enthrall me far more greatly. A stone delights
the material eye, gorgeous words appeal
to the spiritual.”
As he spoke he crossed the room to a
wall-safe, a simple affair which is customarily
builded into the better-class houses. In a
few moments he returned with a red velvet
box.
Without a word he drew from it an
enormous diamond which he placed upon
the table before him where the electric lamps
gleamed upon it, causing it to flash and
scintillate with a wondrous fire. It was
blue-white like moonlight sparkling on a
blue lake.
Ives Cranston gasped. He took a step
forward. His face was flushed. It seemed
hard for him to breathe as though he were
suffocated by its magnificence. His hands
trembled. They fluttered nervously about
the diamond, afraid to touch it, yet caught
in the web of its witchery.
“Examine it,” suggested Chang Kien,
“you can better then judge of its perfection.”
He was perfectly composed. Once
more he seated himself in the great armchair.
He sipped languidly at his tea. He
paid little attention to the diamond. He
thought of the written picture of Ho Shao-Chi:
The single butterfly comes—
Goes—
Comes—
Returning as though urged by love.
The tea in his cup was cold, so he took
a fresh cup and filled it from the pot that
had been singing softly, kept warm by an
alcohol lamp.
And now Ives Cranston held the glowing
blue diamond in his hands. He caressed it
as though it were alive. He crooned softly
to it. The expression of his face was like
that of one hypnotized.
Chang Kien gazed at him and smiled. It
was foolish to go into such ecstasies over a
jewel. Now a perfect quatrain or an unpublished
poem by the immortal Li T’ai-Po
would be something quite different. But a
jewel that contained no music.
He was interrupted in his musings by
the voice of Ives Cranston. Chang Kien was
a man of moods. His mind was like the
sky, ever-changing, ever-charming. But his
opinions varied upon occasion. At the moment
his mind was filled with wondrous
poetry. At other times art and prose held
him equally enthralled.
“What is the price of this Jewel?” asked
Cranston hoarsely.
“How can one put a price on perfection?”
replied Chang Kien quizzically. “In all the
world there is no other stone exactly identical
to that. Jewels are like people. No
two are alike. Pearls, for instance, can be
matched as to size and color and fire, but
they are not duplicates any more than are
two men of similar appearance. I do not
say that this is the most marvelous diamond
in the world, but such as it is, there is no
other to absolutely match it.”
Ives Cranston seemed surprised. “You
adveritsed the gem for sale,” he said.
“Throughout the length and breadth of the
country strange tales and legends are being
circulated about it. Its fame could not be
greater if you employed a press-agent. Yet
now you refuse to set a price upon it.”
Chang Kien smiled. “I advertised it in
twelve leading cities,” he explained. “An
art treasure of this sort cannot be disposed
of by confining oneself to a single locality.
I have had a constant stream of collectors
to view it. Some have come all the way
from the Pacific Coast.”
“If you refuse to put a price upon the
diamond,” persisted Cranston, “how do you
expect to sell it?”
“Merely by bids,” was the reply. “If you
care you may give the matter thought and
mail me a bid. If it is satisfactory I shall
reply. If not, the interlude will be over. I
sometimes wonder after all whether I would
not be disappointed if I succeeded in finding
a purchaser.”
Long after Cranston had departed, Chang
Kien sat alone in the great room upstairs in
which he slept. It was a room of austere
simplicity, all the draperies were of purple
and dark blue. There were a few chairs
scattered about, a great bed and an enormous
library table well stacked with books. Chang
Kien considered that a house only was cozily
furnished when there were books in every
room. He switched off the electric lights
and seated himself in a comfortable armchair.
Lazily he lighted a cigarette. It was
the hour of the day which he enjoyed most.
Each night he sat alone in the darkness
before retiring. He liked to review the
events of the day. Usually they were worth
musing over. His existence had always been
rather venturesome and exciting. He loved
to study faces. He thought of the people
who had recently visited his house to view
the diamond. They had come from all walks
of life, all sorts and conditions of men and
several women, enough material for a hundred
dramas. He thought of Gray Anthony
and of Ives Cranston. There could be no
doubt that they knew each other. At least
Cranston knew Anthony, and yet he had
denied it. Odd. But then Chang Kien had
lived in China, in the Gobi Desert where
strange, unbelievable things frequently happen.
He had schooled himself to be surprised,
to be shocked at nothing. On the
other hand he trusted no man. How many
friends he had he neither knew nor cared.
His sole consideration was the exact number
of his enemies. That was a problem worthy
of reflection.
How long he remained sitting in the
chair he knew not. It was a moment of
complete relaxation. He was off guard. He
was resting. If the mask slipped from his
face what did it matter? All of us wear
masks. Expressions never reflect the true
man. But they are as necessary as one’s
clothes to hide one’s nakedness.
He had been dozing but now he was
fully awake in an instant. He always slept
like a soldier prepared for battle. The thing
that aroused him was a feeling that someone
was moving about downstairs. He did
not know whether he had actually heard a
sound. Nor did he care. He had a sort of
sixth sense that warned him of danger. Perhaps
it was purely natural, since many years
of his life had been spent in desert places.
He knew that his faithful valet, Shung
Kung had retired. They had come upstairs
together. Shung Kung was more than a
servant. He was a trusted companion, a
friend. His faithfulness had been tested
time and time again. He was the partner in
all his master’s numerous enterprises.
Chang Kien listened, every nerve tense.
There was scarcely any sound but still he
knew that someone had stealthily entered
the house. Slowly, cautiously he rose to his
feet. He was no longer smoking. His
cigarette had long since been consumed. And
he was glad. The faint aroma on the air
might be perceptible to a keen sense even
above the pungent fragrance of the incense.
Fortunately the door of his room was still
open, so there was no danger of its creaking.
He slipped off his slippers. Barefooted
he crept stealthily out into the hall. He
was unarmed, nor did he make any attempt
to secure a weapon. Step by step he crept
down the stairs. They were carpeted in rich
velvet, heavily padded. Even had he worn
shoes his footfalls could not have been
heard. At last he arrived at the library door
and peered eagerly within, taking every precaution
not to be seen. Before the wall safe
was Ives Cranston. He had opened the safe
and was just drawing the diamond from
it as Chang Kien beheld him. He carried
no light for the moon was at the full. It
flooded the room in a soft, silvery radiance,
at least that part of the room that held the
wall-safe. It was as though the very perfection
of the night had decided to help in the
robbery. Chang Kien watched Cranston only
for a second. Then he made his way slowly
back upstairs to his room. There he found
Shung Kung awaiting him. Shung whispered
to him softly as he entered. In a
few brief words his master informed him
of what he had perceived.
“Subterfuge,” he murmured, “is a terrible
thing.” Thus speaking, he sighed and
lay down upon the bed.
Meanwhile Ives Cranston had secured the
diamond. He left through the open window
by which he had entered. He had found it
unlatched when he arrived, so it was not
necessary to try to pick the door-lock. He
was jubilant. The gorgeous Gobi Diamond
was his at last. It was worth coming from Pittsburgh to secure. Of course, he had said that he was from Chicago. It would never do in an affair of this sort to give one’s real home town.
A few moments later he was on the street
again. For safety’s sake he decided to cut
through Central Park. Perhaps he could find
a taxi. He had hoped to have a taxi waiting
for him. But at the last minute he had
decided that to do so would be too risky.
As a rule he worked alone. No one had
anything on him. In Pittsburgh he was
known as a wealthy stockbroker. He was
well-respected well-liked. His friends were
numerous. They imagined he was extremely
rich and he was. After all is not a clever
mind far greater in value than mere money?
A taxi was ambling past. He hailed it. It
was fortunate that it was empty. He directed
the chauffeur to drive him to the
Pennsylvania Depot. He had decided to take
the first train out of town no matter where
it went. The main thing now was to get
away. After that he would hurry to Pittsburgh
as quickly as possible. Thus musing,
he stepped into the taxi. To his consternation
he discovered that it was not vacant.
He had made a frightful mistake. On this
one night of all nights when he wished to
avoid meeting anyone he had blundered into
a situation which necessitated quick thinking.
The occupant of the cab was an old
man, a rather tiny old man with bushy white
hair. Most of the time only his white hair
was visible but whenever they passed a street
lamp his jovial face loomed into view.
“Pardon me,” spluttered Ives Cranston.
“I thought this taxi was empty.”
The old man laughed heartily. “It practically
is,” he chuckled, “for I am as good
as nobody. A garrulous old man whom no
one takes seriously.” He seized the arm of
Cranston. “You must stay,” he went on
quickly. His voice was decisive. “After midnight
all men are brothers, whether they be
kings or thieves. At that time the long still
streets of evening take on a hush of magic.
All honest folks are sleeping. Only millionaires,
beggars and milkmen are prowling
about. Where do you wish to go? I’ll take
you anywhere you say? If you wish I will
join you on a night’s adventure. I am cursed
with insomnia. For years it has clutched at
my health. But now I have mastered it. The
secret of overcoming insomnia is never to
go to bed.”
Ives Cranston sat in his corner. He was
very dejected. How was he to rid himself
of this garrulous old gentleman? He was
probably mildly mad but harmless. At another
time he would have been amused by
the old man’s prattle but not while he carried
the wondrous Gobi Diamond in his
pocket. Not even Scheherazade herself could
have interested him at that moment.
He was in a quandary but abruptly he decided
that he would be affable. The old man
was harmless. To insist on getting out of
the taxi might create a scene. He was unable
to gauge the exact degree of the old man’s
mania.
“I wish to go to the Pennsylvania Depot,”
he said. “If you insist on going out of your
way to accommodate me, you may do so.”
The old man called through the speaking-tube
to the chauffeur. He had hard work
making himself understood.
“I guess,” he drawled, “you can’t get a
license to be a chauffeur unless you are
slightly deaf. Anyway they all seem to be.”
He drew a couple of cigars from his
pocket. “Smoke?” he asked laconically.
“These are excellent. A friend sent me them
from Tampa. They are the only things from
Florida that aren’t over-rated.”
Mechanically Ives Cranston took the
proffered cigar. As he lighted it, he admitted
that its excellence could not be denied.
Never had he smoked a cigar that was
more pungent to the taste. After all the
evening’s work was not ending in failure.
Perhaps this was even a better way to get
to the station than that which he had
planned. The little old gentleman sitting
beside him, like an old jovial grandfather,
was the very best sort of a companion to direct
suspicion from him. He drew on his
cigar. It was surprising how rapidly it was
burning away. Within the cab it was delightfully
comfortable. The chauffeur was
driving rather slowly as though he were
drowsy. Cranston yawned. He was drowsy
too. Time after time he yawned and once
he actually dozed. For a moment he forgot
where he was. This would never do. A
fortune depended on his keeping awake. Yet
the drowsiness persisted. His eyes kept closing
as though there were leaden weights on the lids. A delightful feeling of contentment
crept over him. If only he could sleep.
Sweet dreams beckoned. More than anything
else in the world he desired sleep, that is
more than anything but the Gobi Diamond.
Surreptitiously he felt in his inner pocket
to see if the diamond were still there. He
sighed with relief as his hand encountered
it. Now he could sleep, now he could rest.
Even his memory was breaking away from
its moorings like a launch in a typhoon. He
forgot everything, forgot his predicament,
forgot the necessity to escape, forgot Chang
Kien, yes, even the diamond itself. Tranquil
sleep stole over him. The curtain of unconsciousness
softly descended. The last thing
he was conscious of was the calm even voice
of the old man. “In the long still streets of
evening anything and everything may
happen.”
When Ives Cranston awakened he was
lying in a soft bed in an attractive room.
The sun streamed in through a stained glass
window. The room was not elaborately
furnished but it was wonderfully restful.
So quiet and peaceful it was, it urged one
to slumber. He drew his hand across his
eyes, striving to collect his memory. He
felt remarkably well but all the happenings
of the night preceding seemed like a dream.
Suddenly he thought of the Gobi Diamond.
He sprang from the bed. He was extremely
nervous as he took his coat from a chair and
felt in the inside pocket. After that he
breathed easier. He still had the diamond.
He had no inkling as to where he was, nor
how he had gotten there. Although the
room was serene he realized that his position
was precarious to the extreme. Nevertheless,
he was able to think clearly.
He walked into the adjoining bathroom
and washed and brushed his hair. Then
very deliberately he completed dressing. He
was in no hurry. In fact, he rather hesitated
to open the door that led from the
room. What lay behind it? It was a hard
question. Even after he had finished dressing,
he was loathe to leave. He sat down
on a couch. The climax of this particular
adventure was upon him.
Even as he thus reflected, the door opened
slowly. He gazed at it ominously until it
had opened wide. Then a man appeared
upon the threshold. He advanced into the
room all smiles. But Cranston did not
smile. His tongue and lips grew dry, for
the figure that approached was that of
Chang Kien.
“I came quietly,” he said, “so that I
would not disturb you if you were still sleeping.
He who arouses a guest is more of a
scoundrel than he who destroys a wondrous
symphony. You must be hungry. I will
order your breakfast to be served right
here.”
He walked across the room and pressed
a button in the wall. A few minutes later
Shung Kung appeared carrying a tray. On
the tray were toast, a plate of cold chicken
and a pot of coffee.
“For my own breakfast,” mused Chang
Kien, “I always take tea but I am aware
that in this country coffee is given preference.
Eat and may you enjoy your breakfast.
While you do so I will read a bit.”
As he spoke he drew a slender volume
from his pocket.
“This little book,” he continued, “is a history
of the haikai form of poetry. It is
Japanese and although I prefer the poems
of China, still I like to read the poetry of
other countries for comparative purposes.
Chinese poetry is the oldest in the world. It
has mellowed like old wine with age. Japanese
poetry is mostly imitative. Its roots
are buried in old China. Still there are
gems in the literature of Japan which are
superb in their loveliness. What could be
more exquisite than:
“Thought I, the fallen flowers
Are returning to their branch;
But lo! they were butterflies.”
I think of all Japanese poems I like best the
haikais of Matsuro Basho:
“I come weary,
In search of an inn—
Ah! these wistaria flowers.”
One would have to journey long to find
aught that exceeds them in perfection.”
Although Ives Cranston had no appetite,
he ate mechanically. He felt as though an
unseen net was tightening about him. Chang
Kien could not have been more cordial, but
it was unnatural. Under the circumstances he would have preferred him to show extreme
anger.
At last he finished eating. The last drop
of coffee had been consumed. He put down
his cup and gazed questioningly at the face
of Chang Kien. But Chang was unperturbed.
He continued reading:
“Between the hedges of two gardens
Floating, swaying, floating,
A willow.”
Ives Cranston could stand the silence no
longer.
“Would I be presuming,” he asked coldly,
“if I asked how I came to be here?”
Chang Kien laid aside his book. He
smiled. “As to that,” he said, “would I be
presuming if I asked how the Gobi Diamond
came to be in the inner pocket of
your coat? We will answer questions in
chronological order. Since the diamond disappeared
prior to your entrance into the
room, I do not think I am at fault in requesting
some slight explanation.”
Ives Cranston seemed confused. What
answer could he give? It was bold-faced
robbery and he had been caught. There
was nothing to say and so he said nothing.
“You are guilty of sundry crimes,”
mused Chang Kien. “To enter unlawfully
the home of a man with whom you have
shaken hands in friendship is a grievous
thing.”
“What are you going to do?” asked
Cranston defiantly.
“I scarcely know,” replied Chang Kien.
“Shall I ring for more coffee or perhaps
you would prefer a cigarette? It has always
seemed to me that the world would progress
if wars could be fought in gentlemanly
fashion.”
“I want nothing,” snapped Cranston.
“That is the strangest request I have ever
had made to me,” drawled Chang Kien.
“Usually my acquaintances desire all sorts
of favors and expensive extravagances. I
have often thought that a man must indeed
be fortunate to be able to afford many
friends. Personally I prefer enemies. They
are less expensive and far more interesting
and diverting. So much for preliminaries.
Now as to the matter in hand. There are
several roads down which I might proceed.
You will perhaps pardon my bluntness but
you have robbed my house. You have taken
from me a rare possession—the Gobi Diamond.
Besides which you have given one
more jolt to my faith in human nature. I
could have you arrested.”
“Nothing of the sort,” declared Cranston.
“While it is true I am here in this room
you cannot prove that I have robbed you of
anything. What proof is there that I took
the Gobi Diamond? It would be your word
against mine. I am a citizen, a respected
member of society.”
“Being a member of society can scarcely
be taken as a recommendation,” said Chang
Kien. “As to proof, I saw you take the
diamond from the safe. So did the faithful,
honest Shung Kung. The little old
man with whom you rode about the city
last evening is a famous and shrewd detective.
He brought you to this house. He
saw the Gobi Diamond in your pocket. He
knew that it belonged to me, for it was not
the first time he had seen it. I assure you I
am violating no trust when I say that the old
gentleman was employed to guard the diamond.
Who shall find fault with him simply
because his methods of working are
slightly different to the established? I do
not wish to spoil your day. The sun is far
too beautiful, the air too fresh. There is
poetry in the air. This morning I do believe
a lark was singing in my garden. Yet it
seems to me the evidence against you is very
strong. I have no doubt that you are well
thought of in Pittsburgh.”
“Who said I came from Pittsburgh?”
snapped Cranston.
“Pardon me if I presume,” was the reply.
“I know you stated you were from Chicago.
However a gentleman from Chicago as a
rule does not have his clothes made in Pittsburgh.
Your hat too has a Pittsburgh label.
However it is of no consequence. It would be
quite possible, I imagine, for a man to be a
gentleman in either city. In my own country,
I am respected. I trust I show no conceit
when I state that my fame has spread
throughout the Gobi Desert. In my own
country I am a magistrate. Countless are
the trials at which I have officiated. I rather
pride myself on my fairness. Justice to me
is a divine thing. I am rather vain and for
that reason I believe I will settle the present case to my own liking. You have caused
me much worry. You have made me lose
an entire night’s sleep. This rest is lost. I
shall never be able to reclaim it. If you
have any suggestions to make I will listen
to them. But bear this in mind. You will
not escape until the scales of justice have
swung into balance. The law must take its
course.”
Ives Cranston could not help admiring
the suave manner of Chang Kien. He knew
that he had met defeat. He also realized
that if this affair ever became known he
would lose all the prestige which for years
he had labored so carefully to build up.
“Let us say,” he suggested, “that for last
night I simply rented the diamond. For its
use I am willing to pay. What do you think
about a thousand dollars?”
“Not much,” said Chang Kien curtly.
“This is an affair which I detest being mixed
up in. To a great degree I feel that it is
beneath me. You cannot bargain with me.
My price is ten thousand dollars. Nothing
less. And permit me to say, all things considered,
you are getting off rather cheaply.”
Ives Cranston gasped. “I have not that
amount of money with me.”
“I am sure of that,” was the reply, “but
I think under the circumstances I will permit
you to leave the house to get it. You
have an account in a New York bank not
far from this house. If you take a taxi it
will not take you long. I do not think that
you will endeavor to get away. You would
not in any case. Even at this moment, a
taxi is waiting for you at the door.”
As Chang Kien spoke he led the way
downstairs.
“I will wait for you in the library,” he
said. “I shall read a bit more of Matsura
Basho while I do so.”
After Cranston had gone Chang Kien
settled down in a great armchair. He would
liked to have seen Cranston’s face when
he found the jovial old friend of the past
evening waiting to share once more his taxi
with him.
In less than half an hour Cranston was
back again. Now his expression was as calm
and serene as that of Chang Kien. He too
was able to control his emotions. He was
a born gambler, a good loser. He bowed
down before genius that was greater than
his own. He counted out the money.
“It is all there,” he said slowly. “And
now since our business is over I suppose
you have no objection to my leaving.”
“None whatsoever,” smiled Chang Kien.
“Whenever you are in New York I should
be charmed to have you visit me.”
Cranston was anxious to get away. He
still had the Gobi Diamond. In the confusion
Chang Kien seemed to have forgotten
it. As he walked toward the door, Chang
Kien called after him.
“One moment,” he said. “You may keep
the Gobi Diamond. It is only paste. The
one you viewed last evening was real but
always before retiring I remove it from the
wall safe and place therein a rather splendid
imitation. The chance of being robbed, you
see, entered into my calculations.”
Long after Ives Cranston had gone Chang
Kien still sat in his library reading his
slender volume of haikais by Matsura Basho
who of all the Japanese poets is the most
interesting.
“The evening’s cold
Touches the pallid lily’s skin
Before it touches me.”
Not till he had read the last verses did he
lay the book aside. Even then he did so
reluctantly. Now his mind was free, free to
muse over the happenings of the last few
hours. The interlude had been amusing and
also lucrative. He admired the excellent
manner in which Ives Cranston had accepted
defeat. He was quite honorable enough to
be a member of polite society
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Weird Tales/Volume 38/Issue 1/The Long Still Streets of Evening. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.