Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. Give me your staff. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. He remembered it suddenly. I don’t suggest any philanthropy. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. “You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. Wood fancied he recognised.
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