“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. This time you cannot. That window there…. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. Now there is none. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. “If you think it worth while,” she answered doubtfully. Very gently indeed, Alderley grasped the handle of the door and stealthily turned it. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. He had not remembered her as looking so small.
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