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. I'm almost sorry I've sworn to hang you. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. You thanked me tersely, then, barely noticing my existence you went right back to your conversation! I was somewhat crushed but my spirits were lifted when the butcher revealed who your husband-to-be was. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him.
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