A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. Earles asked sharply. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. "Then you ought to be thankful to me for the warning. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. 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.
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