"Ruth?" Silence for a moment. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. "He seems infatuated about the lad," observed Wild. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. " Ruth's eyes began to glow. Why? What is she to you?” “I was there by accident,” Ennison answered. Pearls too! I mean it. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering.
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