Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. She glanced into his face. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. They're gone into the next room. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish.
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