The tension was palpable. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. "Jade," said Ah Cum. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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