Sebastian dared not approach her. Melusine grasped the hilt of the sword she had been carefully holding, and came out into the light. Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-Kong Hotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at this hour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama, and the trail lost for ever. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. .
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