Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. “I have been amusing myself up to now by trying to earn my living,” she replied. Perhaps she was.
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