A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length.
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