‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. ‘Wait! No time for that. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. E. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. XII JACK SHEPPARD A Romance BY W.
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