Ruth Herrick's Assignment
white covering of the little iron bed. The first tears she had shed gushed from her eyes. Her figure rocked as she sobbed and moaned.
"No, no!" she said brokenly. "She believes in me—she does not suspect."
The newspaper woman dropped her elbows on the table before her, buried her chin in her hands, and thought it over. How it had all come about she could hardly realize. She glanced again at the crouching figure on the floor and wondered vaguely why it had been given to her to watch the awful travail of this woman's soul. Something of the story the public understood. It had furnished the motive for the crime. It was whispered that the death of Jack Brandow had much improved that part of the country where he had lived and moved. He had goaded this woman to madness. The revolt, the temptation, and the opportunity had presented themselves simultaneously, and she had fallen as stronger women might have fallen, Miss Herrick thought, had they been so tempted. And then had come the awakening, the desolation, the despair.
Ruth Herrick was usually a cool, unemo-
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