He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. He had but to give his orders. " The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Then he put the paper by.
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