The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. 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. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. "To the best of my belief, Thames Darrell has been murdered by you. On the whole, I think that I have been disappointed with the life here. Took and ran away when she got herself with child. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. So he resolved to try another tack. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife.
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