Giles's round-house. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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