What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. He handed Ruth a letter. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. I want you to hold me and have me SO. Finally she fell into reflection. “Home, of course,” she answered. Mr.
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