’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. "Shall ve go back to de other room?" asked the Jew. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. But here the resemblance stopped. Then a roar of hisses. Shortly a man descended laboriously. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband. .
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