At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. His brows drew a little nearer together. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.
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