Drummond patted him on the shoulder. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. A species of vertigo seized him. One who—who—tres. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. " "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. ” “I think I am. I was—I was a corespondent. Can you come over?” “I think so. Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket.
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