] CHAPTER VIII Slowly Ruth entered her own room. She is no more English than that set of beggars over there. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. "But he can't be far off. . ’ Which effectually silenced her. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket.
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