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CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. But his eyes were on the Frenchman, and as Valade moved up the other road a little way, the lad shifted alertly, and swiftly closed the distance to the intersection. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. ” “No, mine. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely.
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