He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at the hazard of your life. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. Let's get one idea into our heads. It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd. She uncrossed her legs and lowered herself, carefully and slowly, until she lay supine. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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