‘I want a word with you, my lad. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger. ” “Not yet,” he said. She laughed.
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