To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. " "I remember now!" interrupted McClintock. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. You see, my riddle is solved. "The youth whom you delivered to Van Galgebrok,—Thames Darrell, is returned. Anna held out her hand, and he paused.
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