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Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The floor was thickly strewn with sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench, furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a candlestick. It’s no good hiding it any more. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. Stopping before each door, they took up the plates of the locks, examined the ponderous bolts, and were struck with the utmost astonishment at what they beheld. “Everything will follow,” she said. The chance had gone.

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