Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. "No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. Her English was halting. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. They can’t help seeing things in the way they do.
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