"Will he live?" asked Ruth. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. She didn’t choose her man. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. .
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