"Enschede?—her father? What's happened?" McClintock sat down. "Do you mean to tell me he's come and gone in an hour? What the devil kind of a father is he?"
Spurlock shook his head.
"What's become of Ruth?"
"Gone to her room."
"Come, lad; let's have it," said McClintock. "Anything that concerns Ruth is of interest to me. What happened between Ruth and her father that made him hurry off without passing ordinary courtesies with me?"
"I suppose I ought to tell you," said Spurlock; "but it is understood that Ruth shall never know the truth."
"Not if it will hurt her."
"Hurt her? It would tear her to pieces; God knows she has had enough. Her mother…. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?"
"I remember. Go on and tell me."
When Spurlock had finished the tale, touched here and there by his own imagination, McClintock made a negative sign.