The wardrobe was wide open and was empty. All Ruth's pretty dresses had disappeared and there was evidence of hasty packing. He hurried down the room to her trunks. They were repacked, strapped, and ready for shipment. He stooped to peer at the tags. The trunks had come to the hotel, of course, marked with Ruth's maiden name and Pinewood. The man's eyes bulged--he uttered a hoarse cry. These lines were crossed out and in their stead and in a woman's upright handwriting he saw: "Mrs. John B. White, New York." Ruth had repacked the boxes ready for their return by the express company. Ryder turned swiftly to the bed chamber, his heart thumping so that he well nigh choked. The door of the inner room was open. He crept to it and looked in. It was empty. "She's gone! She's run away!" muttered the horrified man. "What--why----" His words ceased and he dashed for the corridor. He understood at last. She had gone away with White! This was his firm belief. Right here it would have been well if John Ryder had recalled the observation of Miss Solomons: "You're just a particular blamed fool!" He did not stop to question the reasonableness of this idea that had shot across his brain and seared it. Ruth had gone. Her trunks were tagged with that man's name--_with her own name_. He saw it all now in a flash. She had married him while yet she was another man's wife. That man was John B. White, and he had followed them to Pinewood Inn and demanded that she return to him. As Ryder rushed out into the corridor he came upon the chambermaid he had tipped so liberally that morning. His trembling lips formed the instant words: "Have you seen my wife?" "Why, Mr. Ryder! I saw her some time ago--going out." "You mean she was leaving the hotel?" "She was dressed for traveling--yes, sir. Just as she was dressed when she came last evening. Yes, sir." Ryder brushed by and started for the stairs. Ruth was attempting to get away with White on that two o'clock train. There might still be time for him to catch it. If ever hell was brewed in a man's heart it was in the heart of John Ryder at this moment. Somebody spoke his name behind him. A swift glance showed him the motherly face of Mrs. Brack. She seemed desirous of speaking to him, but Ryder could stop for nothing now. He hurried on without a word of reply. He reached the head of the flight and started down. There were several men at the desk, but Ryder brushed through them and leaned forward to speak confidentially to George. "Does that train leave Barr, on the main line, at just two o'clock?" he asked the clerk. "Two-thirteen, Mr. Ryder," answered George. "Thanks!" Ryder turned to make his way to the door. He was confronted by a stranger who put an authoritative hand upon his breast and pushed him back. "This is the gentleman, is it?" the stranger said to the clerk. "This is John Ryder?" "That's my name--yes," snapped Ryder. "I'm in a hurry. I can't talk to you now."