He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night.
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