There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. But never mind that," said McClintock grinning as he drew the dish of bread-fruit toward him. “You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. "No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly—or I will not answer for your safety. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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