In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. It has been purchased by blood!" "What! have you cut old Wood's throat?" asked Wild, with great unconcern, as he took up the bag. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes.
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