” “I suppose we are,” said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand. "This is the explanation of the bloody deed. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. Then before she could say a word to arrest him he was at her side. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. It was no use.
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