"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Whenever Ah Cum (whose normal stride was sufficient to keep him at the side of her chair) pointed out something of interest, she had to strain the cords in her neck to focus her glance upon the object. The telegram dispatched, his obligation cancelled, Ah Cum proceeded homeward, chuckling occasionally. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty.
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