"Swear that you will do this," she cried. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. Your life is like a funeral March. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. 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 the first to recover herself. Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. God knows how you did it.
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