"And Jack?" "Gone too," sobbed his daughter. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. "Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. His assistance came too late. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. .
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