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It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. “There is my aunt,” she said. Annabel thought, and thought again. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. Yet you knew that I was not dead. That is, if Spurlock had been throwing money about, which was more than likely. But I shall take care of Ruth, work for her and fight for her. Stop it.
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