Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. " CHAPTER XXV. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. But I am not indisposed to gratify you. His brain reeled. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. ’ The sergeant’s air became positively avuncular.
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