A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. “Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. He would certainly welcome McClintock's advent. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life.
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