She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Some trustworthy Chinaman to watch, for a small bribe, while he, James Boyle O'Higgins, enjoyed himself in Hong-Kong, seeing the spring races, the boxing matches, and hobnobbing with Yankee sailors. He was consumed with desire. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight.
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