A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. The policy of this step was immediately apparent. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Your father…. "Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade.
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