the nature of the adventure it chronicled—then he turned on.
Wade Hereford knew his ward mostly through this book. Thirty months before, when he had found himself the only one who could be considered responsible for the girl, he had subscribed—during his first vain efforts to check her—to a clipping service for all published information about her doings, which he had pasted here and kept. Its pages now recalled the curiously personal, almost romantic interest she had had at first for him; the long expostulatory letters he had written her in the beginning. Once or twice, here in his rooms, when some of his friends had happened upon the book—for he had never deliberately shown it—he had laughed with them over its startling pictures and its impertinent comment. They had
