straight down upon her, thundering nearer with a whirl of spray. This was no model, but the Fortune of the Indies herself, dreadful and beautiful—and the waters were engulfing Jane. But they whirled and cleared and parted. Windows seemed to spin into place from somewhere, and Jane saw that she stood in a dim Shanghai office and that Mr. Bolliver was looking at her anxiously from the door.
Jane stooped and picked up the book she had dropped. She smoothed out a ruffled page mechanically and laid the volume on the table.
"Yes, I had to know," she agreed. "Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Now let's go and do something about it."
She walked steadily to the door and stood beside it, waiting. Nicholas Tyler brought his hand down on Mr. Bolliver's shoulder.
"My faith, Bart!" he cried, "I'd rather deal with an Ingram than any other soul on God's earth!"
