The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. It was hard to meet that gaze. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. "You're inquisitive, young gentleman," replied Jackson, coldly. Tight.
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