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 addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow. First, look at this glove. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. I'm always agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into my hand.
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