A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. She was reasonably certain why. I am certainly no ghost. 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 a detective; my ears and eyes have been trained to absorb all I see and all I hear. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love.
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