"By your voice, a little, but mostly by what Mr. Ferrars said."
"Mr. Ferrars!" she gasped. "Do you mean him?"
"I mean the man you have called Grant. Did you never guess that he was a detective?"
"And he knew!" The woman arose to her full height and again, as on a night long since, and in another country, her arms were tossed above her head, as Ruth nodded her answer, and for a moment her face was awful to look upon, so tortured, so despairing, so full of wrath and wretchedness and soul torture and heart agony, for women can love and suffer, though their souls be steeped in crime.
Ruth, who had taken the half emptied glass from her hand as she struggled to her feet, now put it down, and, startled by her look and manner, moved toward the door, but the woman, her face ghastly, cried "Stop!" with such agonised entreaty that the girl drew back.
"Don't!—I can't see him yet—Wait!—Let me——" She sank weakly back upon the couch, and Ruth noted, while turning away for a moment, how her hand toyed with her dainty watchguard, in seeming self forgetfulness, drawing forth the little watch, a moment later, and looking at it, as if the time was now of importance. Then she threw herself back against the cushions.
"My—vinaigrette—my bag!" she moaned between gasping breaths.
The little bag had been left in the outer office, where it had fallen from her lap, and Ruth opened the door of communication a little way and asked for it, saying, as Ferrars came toward her, "Not yet."
As Ruth turned back, she heard a sharp little click, like the quick shutting of a watch case, and when she held out the vinaigrette, Mrs. Jamieson was swallowing the remainder of the water in the glass.
"Your salts, Mrs. Jamieson."