But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. ” It was sitting in her suitcase in the same pocket as the expired bus tickets. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away.
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