McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. The poor widow was thrown into an agony of distress on learning that a robbery had been committed, in which her son (for she could not doubt that Jack was one of the boys,) was implicated; nor was her anxiety alleviated by Mrs. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. .
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