" "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. How came you, Sir," he continued, addressing Sheppard, "to venture upon that frame. “Promise. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that.
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