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. Women who Dids, and all that kind of thing. But no more of that. “I must repeat,” Sir John said, “that I much regret disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. .
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