They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. Ho-hum! CHAPTER IX The Hong-Kong packet lay alongside the warehouse frontage. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. ” And Ann Veronica’s face was hot. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. “I was already aware of the fact. ‘I know just what he was doing.
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