See what crime does, Sir. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. The thought of beauty became an obsession. He became a little more personal and intimate. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them.
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