From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree, sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. But they cut it all off. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. His father spoke for him. ‘The secret passage!’ It did not take long to find the mechanism of the candlesconce that opened the door. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Kicked out of there for something shady.
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