I ——” He stopped short. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. Even after this woman had gone, it seemed to Ruth that the room was kindlier than it had ever been. You must—you shall be mine. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ’ ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
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