‘Don’t be too sure,’ responded Major Gerald Alderley on a dry note. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Yet there was nothing for her to do. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer.
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