“We will convince him now to the contrary,” Annabel answered. When he was given the telegram he flew to the Praya, engaged the fast motorboat he had previously bespoken against the need, and started for the Macao Passage, with the vague hope of speaking The Tigress. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. It depends upon what he was before he began this racket. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate.
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