But it was of no avail. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Primarily it was her own problem, and in particular the answer she had to give to Mr. ‘Jacques?’ she called. So long. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. This was what he missed. Surely it was a dream. ’ ‘Why the devil should you be interested, I should like to know?’ rejoined Roding. But Jack and his companion were already gone.
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