Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. “In any case, I decline to see you alone. Go to it. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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