"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
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