She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. "But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess. Goodbye. Kneebone said, just now. "I want to know what you've done with the rest of the notes—with the gold— and the papers you took away from my room!" rejoined Wild. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW.
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