Only a book detective could dope this out. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. "One whom you may perhaps have forgotten," replied the stranger, "but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. Have you seen much of her lately?” “Nothing at all,” he answered.
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