The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna. A large body of the constables of Westminster next made their appearance, the chief of whom entered the Lodge, where they were speedily joined by the civic authorities. Once more cheered by daylight, he hastened forward, and entered the chapel. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron.
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