His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. ‘That is imbecile. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. " "Are you sure of this?" asked Thames, who, though as brave a lad as need be, could not repress a shudder at the intelligence. .
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