CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable. “I had those beautiful roses from you on my first night, and a tiny little note but no address. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. . You’re tired, of course. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city.
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