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Updated: June 23, 2025
This was more apparent after Miss Follet's "spread," two weeks later, and which really proved to be the "finest of the season," being a "full-dress affair," when all barriers were swept away during the "jollification" and every vestige of disaffection vanished in company with the bountiful and dainty viands that were literally fit "to set before a king."
But I kept a keen eye out for Follet. I thought Stires could look out for himself, so long as it was just Ching Po. It was the triangular mix-up I was afraid of; even though I providentially had Follet's pistol. And, for that matter, where was Follet? Had he given up the chase? Gone home for that drink, probably.
"You can do your resenting somewheres else," snapped Stires. "Both of you." "I go," murmured Ching Po. He stepped delicately towards the door. "No, you don't!" Follet's foot shot out to trip him. But the Chinaman melted past the crude interruption. "I go," he repeated, with ineffable sadness, from the threshold. The thing was utterly beyond me. I stood stock-still.
At ten o'clock, my breakfast over, I opened my door to a knock, and Follet's bloodshot eyes raked me eagerly. He came in with a rush, as if my hit-or-miss bungalow were sanctuary. I fancied he wanted a drink, but I did not offer him one. He sat down heavily for all his lightness like a man out of breath. I saw a pistol-butt sticking out of his pocket and narrowed my eyes upon him.
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