Why do you not go away?’ ‘Yes, do go away,’ begged Gerald. 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. “You will go and see her,” he begged. Ruth will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent. There is the key. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Had he found the secret door? Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from.
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