“Thank you,” she said coolly. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. " Ruth stood with drawn brows; she was trying to recall. "What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me.
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