He had little money about him, and unless friends come to his aid he must be treated as a pauper. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. The heroism of two beach combers had saved all on board and their own manhood as well. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. He looked half at her and half at the sky. What had been happening all this time? ‘Do you tell me he has not again left his apartment?’ ‘Only to go to some party or other Monday night,’ Kimble said.
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