CHAPTER XXVIII. 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. "I understand," she said. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. "You were no doubt surprised by the unlooked-for intelligence I sent you of your nephew's return?" "Was it unlooked-for on your part?" demanded the knight, distrustfully. You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. " "You've been misinformed, Sir," interposed Smith. Silk.
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