It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. He was—a millionaire. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars.
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