He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. Wood's ear, whispered, "secret agents from France—you understand—friends to the cause—hem!" "I see,—persons of rank!" Mr. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood.
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