Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. . He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. 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. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters.
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