Obviously he is still interested. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. “Has he accused any one yet?” “Not yet,” he answered. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth.
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