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“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. She looked around the apartment for other people. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Many other expedients occurred to her; but after making several ineffectual attempts to get into the Mint unobserved, they were all abandoned. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload.
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