“Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John’s company. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ‘Oh my God,’ uttered Gerald in some dismay. Perhaps I am still mad. She could not see clearly. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. But at the word “home” she turned again. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction.
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