THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
The purser had these books for sale. It would be a simple matter to make an inquiry.
Yes, Miss Jones had bought three guide-books that morning.
"Anything turned up about that wallet of mine?"
"No, Mr. Grogan. That has turned out to be something of a mystery. No one has reported having found it."
"Well, I haven't lost any sleep over it," said William.
"Ruth Warren." When she had written that in those books she had forgotten; either that or she no longer cared. And if she didn't care, the past could not be very dark. He caught himself up sharply. Always ready to go soaring, always ready to make excuses. She had written her true name in an unguarded moment.
As a detective William might have made a passable success. If his logical deductions weren't up to the approved mark, he sometimes made shrewd guesses. If she had told the truth about her father being a professor and a man of science, it would not be difficult to prove it. So he proceeded to hunt up one of his ancients, whom he found in the smoke-room, deep in one of George Eber's Egyptian tales.
"Good morning, Mr. Greenwood," said William, sitting down beside the old man.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Grogan." The archeologist pushed aside his Tauchnitz reluctantly.
"Say, I was wondering if you could answer a
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