"He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. The Master of the Mint IV. The elusive Jane tapped her on the shoulder after class. "I thought we were going to have some music," she said. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. "Sir Cecil is no more. Basically a kindly man but made cynical and derisive by sordid contacts, O'Higgins had almost forgotten that there was such a thing as unselfishness. F.
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