Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. As the day wore on, the crowds diminished,—many who would not submit to the turnkey's demands were sent away ungratified,—and at five o'clock, only two strangers, Mr. Me, you may have. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. His blood would be sweet with it. "I thought I heard a noise. ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.
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