“Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. 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. She opened the door with a neon colored key.
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