As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. "How is the patient?" he asked. It was very pretty and very dainty while it lasted, but we played it with our eyes open, and we perfectly understood the game—both of us. "But you are tired!" "I want to go over the story again. ‘Ah, yes,’ Gerald said, jumping down from the coach and waiting for the fellow to let down the steps for Melusine, ‘I had forgotten about you. "To-morrow I will take you to him. .
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