Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. “I can’t believe it. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. Before leaving the place he looked upwards, and could just discern the blue vault and pale stars of Heaven through an iron grating at the top. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own.
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