That was how it began. How it was that it ended, as we know it did end, is not so easy to state precisely¹. It is very clear that Heyst was not indifferent, I won’t say to the girl, but to the girl’s fate. He was the same man who had plunged³ after the submerged Morrison whom he hardly knew otherwise than by sight and through the usual gossip of the islands. But this was another sort of plunge² altogether, and likely to lead to a very different kind of partnership⁴.

Did he reflect at all? Probably. He was sufficiently⁵ reflective. But if he did, it was with insufficient⁶ knowledge. For there is no evidence that he paused at any time between the date of that evening and the morning of the flight. Truth to say, Heyst was not one of those men who pause much. Those dreamy spectators of the world’s agitation⁷ are terrible once the desire to act gets hold of them. They lower their heads and charge a wall with an amazing serenity⁸ which nothing but an indisciplined imagination can give.

He was not a fool. I suppose he knew — or at least he felt — where this was leading him. But his complete inexperience gave him the necessary audacity⁹. The girl’s voice was charming when she spoke¹⁰ to him of her miserable¹¹ past, in simple terms, with a sort of unconscious cynicism inherent in the truth of the ugly conditions of poverty. And whether because he was

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