Gerald perhaps would know how to find him. “All my dreadful scientific things,” said Ann Veronica. He began to tell me something—and stopped. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. ‘Leave it, imbecile. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth.
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