"He's a good man, Stires. A darned sight
too good for the Naapu grafters. A darned sight too good to go native--"
Then I stopped, for Follet was hardly himself, nor did I like the look
of myself as a common scold.
We did not find Stires, and after an hour or two we gave up the search.
By dusk, Follet had got to the breaking-point. He was jumpy. I took him
back myself to the hotel, and pushed him viciously into Ching Po's arms.
The expressionless Chinese face might have been a mask for all the
virtues; and he received the shaking burden of Follet as meekly as a
sister of charity.
I bought some tinned things for my dinner and took my way home. I should
not, I felt sure, be interrupted, and I meant to turn in early. Madame
Mauer would be telling the tale to her husband; Follet would, of a
certainty, be drunk; and Stires would be looking, I supposed, for French
Eva. French Eva, I thought, would take some finding; but Stires was the
best man for the job. It was certainly not my business to notify any one
that night. So I chowed alone, out of the tins, and smoked a long
time--alone--in the moonlight.
* * * * *
It was not Stires, after all, who found her, though he must have hunted
the better part of that night. It was three days before she was washed
ashore.
Pages:
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270