Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. The party resolved itself for Ann Veronica into a game in which she manoeuvred unostentatiously and finally unsuccessfully to avoid talking alone with this gentleman. And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. Those were dreams. From the second descended Mr. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.
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