Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. " "Then you will stay!" she cried, clapping her hands joyfully, "for I'm sure he won't part with you. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Wild on his guard against an assassin.
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