There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
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