She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. He couldn't have taken Mr. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. ” He was suddenly calm.
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