“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. .
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