"In a matter like this, one or two is always better than a company," Peter Gross dissented. "Yet I wish you could be there. I cannot offer you a place in my proa—there will be no room for a woman—but if you can find any other means of conveyance, the state will pay." He looked at her wistfully.
Koyala laughed. "The Argus Pheasant will fly to Sadong faster than your proa," she said. She rose. As her glance roved over the desk she caught sight of the letter Peter Gross had just finished writing.
"Oh, you have been writing to your sweetheart," she exclaimed. Chaffingly as the words were spoken, Peter Gross felt a little of the burning curiosity that lay back of them.
"It is a letter to a sea-captain at Batavia whom I once served under," he replied quietly. "I told him about my work in Bulungan. Would you care to read it?"
He offered her the envelope. Quivering with an eagerness she could not restrain, Koyala half reached for it, then jerked back her hand. Her face flamed scarlet and she leaped back as though the paper was death to touch. With a choking cry she exclaimed:
"I do not want to read your letters. I will see you in Sadong—" She bolted through the door.
Peter Gross stared in undisguised bewilderment after her. It was several minutes before he recovered and placed the letter back in the mailing receptacle.
"I never will be able to understand women," he said sadly, shaking his head.