The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Then she saw him. But I trusted to that ring of yours. " The stranger was for a moment lost in reflection. Let her have her own way in all things, for she will always be just.
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