He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. Wood's boat bearing up towards him. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances.
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