But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. Her little white hand stole across the table. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination.
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