“I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. She shot a sudden glance at him. ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. " Ben judged correctly. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project.
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