The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long line of constables, marching in the same order. And now, only twenty-four hours behind him … that is, if he wasn't paddling by on the return route to Hong-Kong or had dropped down to Macao.
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