Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘I’ve had enough of this. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. We have that gift. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away. . ‘It is all too probable that she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed.
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