It was an hour later when, on the other side of Kaliti, Lane drove up to a large and substantial looking house that, facing the beach, was set back a short distance from the road. A man of middle age, a stocky figure in riding breeches, with shirt open at the neck, came courteously forward from the verandah to meet him.
“My name’s Lane,” said Donald Lane pleasantly. “I’m John Crane’s nephew. I wonder if you’d be good enough to let Mrs. Thompson know I’ve come?”
“Why—yes, certainly!” answered the man in a somewhat perplexed way. He swung around and called toward the house. “Nina! Come here a moment, will you! There’s some one to see you!” He turned to Lane again, and held out his hand. “I’m Thompson,” he said cordially.
Lane stared.
“Oh!” he ejaculated. He shook hands. “I expected to fi
