It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. Even Melusine, armed with special knowledge, and the enthusiastic assistance of Jack Kimble’s strong arm, had taken almost half a day to locate the place. “Let’s go home. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. Yes—as he would have liked. His suspicions at first fell upon you. In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. ‘Why, that’s it. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was "only Mrs.
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