“We have,” he said, “to be the utmost friends. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. 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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