" Spurlock entered the office, passed Ruth without observing her (or if he did observe her, failed to recognize her), and deposited his funds with the manager. Now, you know where he is bound. ” “For example?” “Your dyed hair. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. I can't concentrate on my work. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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