She sensed that he was looking for her. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. Parbleu, but I will certainly kill him this time.
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