She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. "I'm a peace-officer," he added, "about to arrest a notorious criminal.
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