A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. Passing thought. 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. In vain Wood protested his innocence. It has instead found you. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. There's not his peer among the peerage.
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