I should like Mr. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. ‘Never. Me, I have a question for you first. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He recognized the face instantly. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. He has had the whole country searched; but hitherto without success.
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