. . He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. There was no rush. 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. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. Or I should have made love to you long ago. To appreciate it you should try rooms.
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