He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. " On the appearance of his visitors, Sheppard arose,—his gyves clanking heavily as he made the movement,—and folding his arms, so far as his manacles would permit him, upon his breast, steadily returned the glances fixed upon him. Well, it's scarcely credible. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. She began to act. ‘Did you see the man?’ Gerald asked. The likeness was ridiculous. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. “Call me Cathy, John. It is simply our point of view which is altogether different.
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