She could feel her face turning beet red. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. I told you no good would come of it. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. ” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds. 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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