’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Looking sullen, he released the handle and sat back.
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