When he was given the telegram he flew to the Praya, engaged the fast motorboat he had previously bespoken against the need, and started for the Macao Passage, with the vague hope of speaking The Tigress. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. “Delicious!” she murmured.
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