"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. 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. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. “I don’t think she will,” she said. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. “How did you find me?” He asked. " "Ha!" exclaimed her son, starting back, as he obeyed her, and disclosed Jonathan Wild. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side.
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