Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable.
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