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"Sir Rowland must be gone. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. There one comes to a relationship that Mr. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. " "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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