Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. Gerald had been confident that the boy would not dream of disobeying an order thrown at him by a major of militia, but he guessed Jack might be wondering if he was about to be haled off to prison. “Wonderful!” “I have always longed for prison service,” said a voice, “always. Gerald watched her vanish into the darkness, unusually incensed. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. The chair was torture. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask.
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