“Look round the table,” she said. She was alone with a deadly enemy. Too skilled to advertise their presence by a show of arms and men. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. He carried a small bag. Later he dispatched a cable announcing the escape and the sending of the letter. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. ’ ‘Gad, but she’s a beauty,’ gasped Hilary, and slammed his sword back in its scabbard. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. Sheppard.
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