He handed Ruth a letter. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. Spurlock went, it would not be far enough. A paralyzing horror was upon her. The Matriarchate! The Lords of Creation just ran about and did what they were told. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. On the appearance of the thief-taker, Mrs.
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