"How do you know that?" rejoined Jack. " "A young fellow who thinks he's in love, when he has only been reading too much. Turning, she flew for the nearest door. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. " Ruth slightly brushed the withered cheek. " "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well.
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