He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?” “You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. She drew it out with shaking fingers. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt.
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