Ruth Ventnor!
The flying figure reached me, threw soft arms around my neck, was weeping in relieved gladness on my shoulder.
“Ruth!” I cried. “What on earth are YOU doing here?”
“Walter!” she sobbed. “Walter Goodwin—Oh, thank God! Thank God!”
She drew herself from my arms, catching her breath; laughed shakily.
I took swift stock of her. Save for fear upon her, she was the same Ruth I had known three years before; wide, deep blue eyes that were now all seriousness, now sparkling wells of mischief; petite, rounded and tender; the fairest skin; an impudent little nose; shining clusters of intractable curls; all human, sparkling and sweet.
Drake coughed, insinuatingly. I introduced him.
“I—I watched you struggling through that dreadful pit.” She shuddered. “I could not see who you were, did not know whether friend or enemy—but oh, my heart almost died in pity for you, Walter,” she breathed. “What can it be—THERE?”
I shook my head.
“Martin could not see you,” she went on. “He was watching the road that leads above. But I ran down—to help.”