The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous. I stole away and walked to the railway station. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. See? Nothing really. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. She spotted her opportunity. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. None presented themselves to save him from that return.
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