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. You were delicious in concert, by the way. Some few of the individuals seated at the other tables seemed to take an interest in the proceedings of Blueskin and his party, just as a bystander watches any other game; but, generally speaking, the company were too much occupied with their own concerns to pay attention to anything else. It was better even than the hymn-singing. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. More than half the city perished. Her eyes where glassy and shining. Let me take the satchel, sir. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground.
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