Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write.
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