"No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. 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. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. .
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