She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. " "You have made no such arrangements as will compromise me, I hope, Sir Rowland?" said Wild, hastily.
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