The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. ‘Do you think it is the man in the moon that I mean? What is it that Gérard has told you?’ ‘That you need help. Stanley. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone.
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