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. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. But as Rowland sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its bondage. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "She has fallen into the villain's hands. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said.
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