At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Mrs. It was a brief solitude, however. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. Fascination.
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