The young man did not know what he was doing or where he was. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance that Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’ The old lady gave him a sharp look.
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