Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. Ought she to walk into some of these places and tell them what she could do? She hesitated at the window of a shipping-office in Cockspur Street and at the Army and Navy Stores, but decided that perhaps there would be some special and customary hour, and that it would be better for her to find this out before she made her attempt. But she did not speak.
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