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Unable to shake the vision of the pearl from his mind, he was returning to accept Mapuhi's price of a house. He landed on the beach in the midst of a driving thunder squall that was so dense that he collided with Huru-Huru before he saw him. "Too late," yelled Huru-Huru. "Mapuhi sold it to Toriki for fourteen hundred Chili, and Toriki sold it to Levy for twenty-five thousand francs.
And Raoul listened again to the tale of the house. Several hours he spent in the endeavor to hammer the house obsession out of Mapuhi's mind; but Mapuhi's mother and wife, and Ngakura, Mapuhi's daughter, bolstered him in his resolve for the house.
And you must build the house on my island, which is Fakarava." "Is that all?" Raoul asked incredulously. "There must be a sewing machine," spoke up Tefara, Mapuhi's wife. "Not forgetting the octagon-drop-clock," added Nauri, Mapuhi's mother. "Yes, that is all," said Mapuhi. Young Raoul laughed. He laughed long and heartily. But while he laughed he secretly performed problems in mental arithmetic.
A hand fumbled against the mat that served for a door. "Who is there?" Mapuhi cried. "Nauri," came the answer. "Can you tell me where is my son, Mapuhi?" Tefara screamed and gripped her husband's arm. "A ghost!" she chattered. "A ghost!" Mapuhi's face was a ghastly yellow. He clung weakly to his wife. "Good woman," he said in faltering tones, striving to disguise his vice, "I know your son well.
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