That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. He was not sure that the boy had put himself beyond the pale; merely, the boy's actions pointed that way. 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 eyed him scornfully. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. .
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