Montressor’s guests. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. No: I must face it out. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. As Jack appeared to be sinking fast, his fetters were removed, his own clothes were returned to him, and he was allowed a mattress and a scanty supply of bed-linen. I hope that some day he'll understand how much he owes you.
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