He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Only a book detective could dope this out. “I know nothing about your wife. It is so difficult. ‘It must be painful. “Let me add too that I am thankful for your decision. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. What is there?” “Tristan.
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