At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. ‘That’s not much comfort.
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