Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. “Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked. 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 am very much obliged for the tea,” she said. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. I finally got my own set of house keys when I turned eleven.
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