“Where is she going?”
“Auckland. She came from there.”
“Queer, she would go home this way——”
“Her whole fortune is in her arms,” Fleury whispered.
The ship’s bell struck twice; the cane-chair creaked; they turned by habit to note the appearance of the Japanese woman with drink. She did not fail. Stackhouse came to with a prolonged snore, a sound unlike a pair of pit-terriers at work.
“A considerable brute,” muttered the preacher.
“He has been much of a man in his way,” said Bellair.
“He talks much—that is weakness.”
Their eyes met. Bellair began to understand how deeply the other’s experience had bitten him.
“He’s afraid of death,” Fleury added.