And mind you don't arouse his suspicions. I have very few friends in Paris. My father has made every possible inquiry, and offered large rewards; but has not been able to discover the slightest trace of him. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Ray did not pace, he just stood. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. They vanished through the doorway.
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