“I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. He had certain orders from which on no account was he to deviate. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. All seemed infected with Austin's terrors except Mrs. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner.
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