He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. “Since last night.
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