He opened the drawer of the writing table. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. He was speechless. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. Sheppard uttered a piercing scream. "Curiosity, I suppose," returned Jack, carelessly.
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