ink . . ."
"I did think." There was nothing so dispassionate in the world as
the voice of Captain H. C. Jorgenson, ex Barque Wild Rose, since
he had recrossed the Waters of Oblivion to step back into the
life of men. "I did think,
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trouble. . . ."
"Oh, you don't want to make trouble,
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"No. Don't believe in it. Do you, King Tom?"
"I may have to make trouble."
"So you came up here in this small dinghy of yours like this to
start making trouble, did you?"
"What's the matter with you? Don't you know me yet,
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"I thought I knew you. How could I tell that a man like you would
come along for a fight bringing a woman with him?"
"This lady is Mrs. Travers," said Lingard. "The wife of one of
the luckless gentlemen Daman got hold of last evening. . . . This
is Jorgenson, the friend of whom I have been telling you, Mrs.
Travers."
Mrs. Travers smiled faintly. Her eyes roamed far and near and the
strangeness of her surroundings, the overpowering curiosity, the
conflict of interest and doubt gave her the aspect of one still
new to life, presenting an innocent and naive attitude before the
surprises of experience. She looked very guileless and youthyilai：
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