Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She had never seen her sitting on tables nor heard her discussing theology, and had failed to observe that the graceful figure was a natural one and not due to ably chosen stays. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. There must be something we can do. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. E. Bête, she told herself fiercely. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The man could put a bullet through her before she could hope to reach any one of them. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. And the bedchamber, for which Melusine instantly headed, was almost bright. The evenings were dulcet and soft.
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