"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. . ’ She raised the pistol. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. You see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. 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 quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. "I will at once convince you of the truth of my assertions, and ascertain whether the enemy really is at hand.
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