The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. "Your health, Kneebone. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. It is perfectly intrusive of me, and I quite see that you must be sick to death of running into such an interfering busybody all the time. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. ‘Only me name,’ Kimble said apologetically.
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