"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. Her unnatural calm was giving way. He glanced up. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-Kong Hotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at this hour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama, and the trail lost for ever. I want her to get forward, to set her among people who'll understand what to do with her.
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