Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. 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. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. ‘Major, sir!’ The major appeared so swiftly that Melusine was instantly suspicious.
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