He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.
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