Cold drops stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. To return. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Yet there was nothing for her to do. There are some papers I have to look through to-night—important papers. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.
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