. . ‘No, you don’t. Fast and Loose. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock's face. 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.
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