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CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Before it is too late. "Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault. “So you’d best open your coffers. " "Not quite," rejoined the thief-taker, significantly. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know.
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