” The figure of her aunt, a little distant, a little propitiatory, behind the coffee things, filled her with a sense of almost catastrophic adventure. Mr. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious.
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