It was now a quarter past twelve. "It's a whale of a place. The last Meeting between Jack Sheppard and his Mother 419 XXIV. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. " "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. A few more minutes, and she was safe. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. The Mother Abbess, while thankful, could not be brought to consent to allow the girl out of her charge alone with unknown servants, and Martha was delegated to accompany her erstwhile nurseling to the homeland she had thought never to see again. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time.
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