To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. "I do," replied Jack, carelessly. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Oh, you must believe me.
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