It would be swindling. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope.
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