‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. " McClintock whistled. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger.
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