Spurlock began to watch for Ruth's coming in the morning; first, with negligent interest, then with positive eagerness. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. " "Did you discover any trace of footsteps?" inquired Jack eagerly.
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