"I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart. " "Iss, missis," grinned the black. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. Brown or Jones, I dare say. She moved a little nearer to him. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers in his face. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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