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. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. "No," replied Jack, peremptorily. " "And all the time you loved her?"—appalled. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. He just walked in a few minutes ago. Mind you don't stir till supper's over.
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