Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. We aren’t worth it. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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