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If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
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