" Spurlock wondered if something hadn't suddenly gone awry in his head. He drew her closer. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. Petals!. Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished. She crept out of the shadows. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously.
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