For it was but logical that she would seek a divorce on the ground that she had unknowingly married a fugitive from justice. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. Courtlaw,” Anna said, “and my solicitors, Messrs.
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