Anna admitted the fact. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. I’ll get in trouble. He stopped before her suddenly. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. "Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. 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. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. .
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