He let go of the girl’s arm. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. That's well. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it.
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