My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I
raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of
the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for
she wore her sombre black cloak and hat and a black veil, and when she
saw me she came out, closing the door after her and holding out her
hand.
"You are punctual," said she. "St. Dunstan's clock is striking now."
"Yes," I answered. "But where is your father?"
"He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn't feel well enough to come,
and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense
will kill him if it goes on much longer."
"Let us hope it won't," I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in
my tone. It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and
I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was
breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung
over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less
manifest.
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