"Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged.
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