lk?"

It was then that he heard the slight, sobbing breath in his gallery, the
rattle of his slatted door that brought him to his feet and bounding
across the room. Reaching into the darkness he dragged out the
eaves-dropper--whose poor knees had simply given like paper, whose
desperate effort to save herself had thrown her against the jamb and
betrayed her--Miss Matilda....

"You--!" said Gregson. "You--!"

He dropped her by the threshold and started away from her with spread
fingers and fallen jaw. For a time only the sound of his labored
breathing filled the silence and the three stayed so, the woman
collapsed against a chair, Motauri swaying and winking stupidly and
Gregson, struck dumb, incredulous, empurpled at first and then slowly
paling. Without a word he spun on his heel, returned to the table and
poured himself a drink and tossed it off.

* * * * *

"Respectability!" he said, in the tone of conversation, caught his
collar and ripped it loose. "By Heaven!" he cried, and wrung his great
hands. "What am I going to do now? What am I going to do?"

His wandering glance lighted on the rope's end on the table-top, and he
coiled it in his hand. He began to walk to and fro before them. His face
was ghastly, his bloodshot blue eyes were set like jewels. Now he
stopped before Motauri and looked him up and down curiously. Laughter
took him like a hiccup: laughter not good to hear: but he left off as
quickly. He came back and stood over the cowering figure on the floor.

"And you're the thing that was too good for me!"

He let his gaze possess her deliberately, noting each stain and smirch,
her disordered dress and loosened hair, and pitiful, staring face.

"Well, you're not too good now," he said, wetting his lips. "No--you're
none too good! You'll marry me to-morrow--and you'll crawl on your knees
to have me. And that father of yours--that sniveling old
hypocrite--he'll crawl to make the lines, if I choose....

"When I think how I've dreamed of you! How I've lived through days and
nights of perdition, wanting you--you sweet, cold, white saint you--and
a devil after all!

"To think how I've schemed and trembled and trembled and waited, afraid
to say a word or make a move lest I'd queer any chance. Me--a common
trader with a native wife that wouldn't die. And you up there on the
hill so prim and fine. A missionary's daughter. Too respectable to
touch! And what are you now--that'