It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. To her intense disappointment, she discovered that all papers had been removed from desks and cupboards. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. “A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he entered the room. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't.
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