We already had a place to mislay blame. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. “Please don’t,” she said. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. The envelope might contain only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time. ’ At last.
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