Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Mr. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. It was not possible for him to have been deceived. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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