When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. ’ ‘Ah, that is good,’ sighed the lady. You see, my riddle is solved.
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