CHAPTER III. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. "Take him home, Saunders," said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty steed to the attendant's care, "I shall not require you further. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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