One of his chair coolies had witnessed the transportation of Spurlock by stretcher to the sampan in the canal. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. His glance came up again and met hers. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words. Very romantic and all that. And he would express various artistic sensibilities and aesthetic appreciations in carefully punctuated sentences and a large, clear voice.
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