One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding. There you are! Girl spoilt for life. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. " "You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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