The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. He was a just man, and he did not care to start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. ’ ‘I don’t know that there is so much to tell.
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