He stopped abruptly before the apparently incurious Chinaman. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. ” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. Good riddance.
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