His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. What!—add another drop to her cup? Who knows? Any day they may find me. This is her first adventure. Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions, Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing case, but that he thought something might be made of it, and, if left to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's entire satisfaction.
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