Ralph, for some reason, had grown strangely reticent. He spent very little time at home, and that little was chiefly passed in his laboratory. His face became so serious that she feared for the worst, and refrained from asking questions lest she should add to his anxiety.
William Menire dropped in occasionally of an evening, but she noticed that the one topic of all others was avoided as if by mutual consent. At last Ruth felt as if she could bear the suspense no longer.
"Do tell me, Ralph," she said; "is the whole thing what you call a frost?"
"Why do you ask?" he questioned.
"Because you are so absorbed, and look so terribly anxious."
"I am anxious," he said, "very anxious."
"Then, so far, the lode has proved to be worthless?" she questioned.
"It is either worthless, or else is so rich in mineral that I hardly like to think about it."
"I don't understand," she said.
"Well, it is this way. The tests we have made so far show such a large percentage of tin that I am afraid we are mistaken."