But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. He smiled. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. The Jacobite. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. Naturally it all came out then. He was a fool. “Lord!” she said. It makes no difference.
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