But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. It hardly served his interests. Figg?" asked Gay. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver.
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