Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. She left for good after he fell asleep. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. ” “I forgive you willingly,” Anna said, bending over him. As she neared the bottom of the dip in Piccadilly she saw a woman approaching her from the opposite direction—a tall woman who at the first glance seemed altogether beautiful and fine. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ” She thanked him with a look and rose to her feet. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. You have been to see your sister, of course.
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