His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. You act your part capitally, but it won't do. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul.
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