There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. Her heart thudded. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. "Well, who'd have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!" said Ireton. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room.
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