" McClintock whistled. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. ” It took some days for this phase to pass, and it left some scars and something like a decision. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. . . The room was dark and dusty.
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