She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very offensive to be told, that he's like him. 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. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. The man looked hard at him. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself.
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