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. The sight of the thief-taker increased the fury of the mob to a fearful degree. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual.
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