There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
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