Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?" "Undoubtedly," replied Winifred. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. Go easy. She was too late.
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