You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. I can't invent; the thing won't come. And I find I can't tell one stay from another!" McClintock laughed. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. . But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed.
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