Presently McClintock came in. ‘Well, only look what’s come of it. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "I do," replied Thames, in the same tone; "we haven't a moment to lose. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland.
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