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His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. He then looked around him with some curiosity; and, as the thief-taker was occupied in giving directions to his attendant in an undertone, ample leisure was allowed him for investigation.
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