He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. He had attained the residence by his political ascension to the Duke of Herculis. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. “Have to go now.
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