It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Their minds are turned against him. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "Forgive—forgive me!" "I have nothing to forgive," replied Mrs. But, let's see the prisoner.
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