The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. . . "Crime upon crime. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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