It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. Jonathan is capable of anything. 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. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. ‘It is all too probable that she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. "Sir Cecil is no more.
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