The lady had disappeared. 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. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. Did he like freaks? She opened her black umbrella, her giant sun deflector. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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