“I suppose, Mr. It is the only way. CHAPTER III. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. Her thoughts took words for themselves. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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