It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Not choosing to hazard so great a fall, Jack turned to examine the building, to see whether any more favourable point of descent presented itself, but could discover nothing but steep walls, without a single available projection. The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. ‘Am I a fool? Can I blow off a head with a pistol which is not loaded?’ ‘She has a point,’ conceded Alderley, relaxing a little as amusement burgeoned again ‘Ten to one she is a French spy,’ burst from Roding.
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