Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. In the north they called her Manitou, in the south, Pabothkew. Her little white hand stole across the table. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large table.
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