THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
match flared. Soon a candle flickered and revealed a woman in a low-necked dress. A dead cigarette hung pendent from her lips. A shadow passed between her and the light. The shadow was a man. The woman drew the shade.
Ruth leaned against the casing of her window; she was sick with horror. She had no illusions regarding yonder brief picture. A monstrous faintness threatened her, but she clung to her senses desperately. All the strength, all the cunning and invention God had given her she would need.
She took off her hat—a pith helmet—and hid the two steel hat-pins in the side of her skirt where she could reach them handily. Then she sought the door, but without hope. As she expected, it was locked on the outside. There was no inside bolt. She could not get out, but any one could get in.
She returned to the side window. By pressing her cheek closely to the left wall she was able to secure a glimpse of the street in which the house stood. Across the way she saw a huge Chinese lantern swaying in the mild night wind. Upon this lantern was a rudely painted number.
She heard footsteps in the hall, and she stepped back behind the bed, into the corner. The door opened and a gross woman, with thick, dry, blond hair and deeply rouged cheeks, entered with an oil-lamp. She peered around the room until she discovered Ruth. Then she set the lamp on a stand in the far corner.
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