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. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. “No, I’d like to. "You've won your wager.
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