There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. “It’s his birthday. ” The detective turned again to Anna. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. There will be no avoiding it. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. “Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. "I don't see how I can improve it. "What is it?" "The night," she answered.
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