“God!” said Leslie, staring at the bent figure on the matting before him.
He remained speechless for a moment, then he took out his watch and looked at it: it was eleven o’clock.
He turned furiously and strode out of the room: on the veranda he stopped like a horse suddenly reined in.
Jane’s image had appeared before him, turning him back.
Suppose he were to go to the hotel now and drag George du Telle out and beat him within an inch of his life, as was his intention a moment ago?
The idea of Jane in the midst of that scene brought his fury down from boiling point.
He returned to the room, where Lotus-bud was still on her knees, with her hands clasped.
In bed and asleep. She had returned, it seems, greatly troubled at noon, and had confided her trouble to Lotus-bud, making her promise to tell no one—Leslie San especially—and Lotus-bud had promised—with the result we have already seen.
For a moment he thought of waking Campanula, but he dismissed the thought. The thing had occurred and was irremediable, the question now remained, what was he to do about George du Telle.