Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. He had this thing for his twin daughters. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. ’ ‘Parbleu, it is I who am the idiot?’ she scolded furiously, removing one hand and digging it into her sleeve. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows.
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