“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. "Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. 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. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. Don’t be late if you can help it. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion.
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