" "I should have opened that letter in the beginning," said the doctor. " "When will you want me?"—with pitiful eagerness. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. Wood, leaping from the bed. Her lips were dry and cracked. “I had found her at last, and she shot me.
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