“No one will be likely to come in here,” Ruth said, and stepped into the house.
Byrne followed her without comment, quite indifferent to their surroundings. When Ruth spoke to him again about the house, he replied vacantly; his mind was not here, but with Cynthia Gail, where he had last seen her in Chicago that Sunday night in January when they had parted. What had thereafter happened to her was the first matter to him.
Ruth, exploring the ruin, came upon a room which seemed to have been put in some sort of order, so far as she could see from the dim light which came through the doorway.
“Give me a match,” she asked Byrne; he took a matchbox from his pocket and, striking a light, he held it while they peered about. There was a fixture protruding from the wall, but no light resulted when
