The ladder was now within reach. The visitor was the hotel manager, who respectfully announced that the doctor was ready for her. The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Anna went out. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. “I love you, you know. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place.
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