r moods were many and always
striking. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and
baffling as the sea in doldrums. She never grew angry for anything
her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the
lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the
inner temple--Spurlock's study.

She formed a habit which embarrassed Spurlock greatly, but at first
he dared not complain. She would come and sit cross-legged just
beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. One night
she apparently fell asleep. He could not permit her to remain in
that position. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and
carried her to her bed. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat
up hugging and rocking her body in delight. This charming episode
was repeated three times. Then he sensed the trap.

"Ruth, you must not come and sit on the threshold. I can't
concentrate on my work. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. I
can't help looking at you frequently. You don't want me to spoil
the story, do you?"

"No. But it's so wonderful to watch you! Whenever you have written
something beautiful, your face shows it."

"I know; but ..."

"And sometimes you say out loud: 'That's great stuff!' I never make
any sound."

"But it is the sight of you!"

"All right, Hoddy. I promise not to do it again." She rose. "Good
night."

He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until
it touched his chest. He had hurt her. But the recollection of the
warm pliant body in his arms ...!

"I am a thief!" he whispered. He had only to recall this fact
(which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go
around or over.

Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth
believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only
masquerading as Spurlock. If ever the denouement came--if ever the
Hand reached him--Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed
all her tender advances. The law would accord her all her previous
rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his
madness he had taken her. She might even forgive him.

He thanked God for this talent of his. He could lose himself for
hours at a time. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that
character, he suffered or prospered equally. He was the
beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales),
or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There was