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‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. But God will punish you for what you have done this day.
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