He and her father shook hands manfully. 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. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. One must be on guard. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination.
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