"However, I will be there. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. "I alone am to blame. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. “It’s—private.
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