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" "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. Earles answered, glibly. "He had been many years in this country before his assassination took place. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. But I have not done so, and will not.
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