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Mr. Sanders, a florid little man, accurately dressed for summer evenings in England, hopped down from the Holborows carriage and came trotting back through the hotel garden.

"I say," he chirped, "Mr. Scarlett! Won't you come dine with us to-morrow night? Ah, good! Very glad. Surawongse Road. Right! Good-night again."

And so their expedition ended. Midnight had passed, but Owen had no desire to sleep. Calling for ice, soda, and cigars, he stretched out in his verandah chair, and stared blankly down into the moonlit compound. Banana leaves drooped in pennants of hoary silver; the tin roof of a go-down shone like snow; a