It was the moment for smiles. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. His arms released from his 68 sides, he lifted them around her in a light embrace. If she kept on, would she make it out of the door? Then what? He could come after her before she could reach the secret passage. 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.
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