CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. 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. Find your man, that’s the rule. At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
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