"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. She was definitely following him. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. "What's the matter?" he cried. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets.
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