Last night Mr. 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. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Do have another. That’s got his nerves to rags. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life.
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