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He was the sort of boy that must have had a home, that couldn't have come from anywhere but a good home; the mark of hearthstone and roof-tree was on him.

"But there's somebody on earth you know."

"No. Paullen—Paullen isn't my name."

McGuire eyed him appraisingly. McGuire was a redhead with a burned skin, freckle-black. Always he had—or tried to have—a manner of laziness, a sort of misty good-nature. His wide mouth was usually fringed by an expression that was almost like a smile, yet not quite detectable. His long, pointed nose gave an odd, whimsically impertinent cast to his face; and the blue eyes, coloured with a sort of a childhood blue, were partly hid by sleepy, drooping lids. They seemed innocent eyes, though they had looked upon just about all the uglier shapes of sin.

"Who are you, then?"

"Nobody. Just that. At least, to all the people that used to know me. It makes no difference where I go—what I do."

One of McGuire's weaknesses was curiosity. "Who are you, then? What's the matter with you?"