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Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. 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. "There's another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste.
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