Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Couldn’t fit it inside, but the horse’s blanket lay over it, and, like I said, as long as no one rides him and don’t remove the blanket, I think it’ll stay hid.
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