Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. ‘Was this when Nicholas commended you to this Abbess?’ ‘But, yes. The inherent conscience keeps most of us away from jail, from court, from the gallows; the acquired conscience helps us to preserve the little amenities of daily life. The unequal battle went on. “Of course you don’t.
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