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This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. He could lose himself for hours at a time. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “I am sure that you are. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book.
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