Half an hour passed, but Jack did not make his appearance. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. You are too kind. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Tell me I haven’t heard. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder.
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