He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. We won’t drag you away until you’ve been through the place from top to bottom. And, turning at the touch, he perceived Sheppard's glance fixed meaningly upon him. Pretty good stuff, some of it. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.
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