Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within. He would have to return to Hong-Kong; and his trail would be picked up the moment he set foot on the Praya. It makes no difference. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. “Then your name——” “My name is Pellissier.
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