Ruth returned to the table. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. Perhaps the doctor, the manager and the girl were in collusion: perhaps they had heard indirectly of the visit paid by Mr. Of course. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself.
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