His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. Agreeably he helped her take the shirt off. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. CHAPTER VII The astonishing collapse of Spurlock created a tableau of short duration. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank.
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