“I forbid it!” she said firmly. ” “Don’t tempt me,” she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. " He departed, musing. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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