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Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. "Ah!" exclaimed Sir James. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. "Out of the beaten track, with a real man for an employer? How would that strike you?" Interest shot into Spurlock's eyes; it spread to his wan face. Spurling had retired for the night. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. That’s why he was so annoyed, you know. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower.
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