‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. ’” “Yes?” “I think—yes, I went on in a pleasing blend of the casual and sotto voce, ‘The fact of it is, sir, I happen to be your son-in-law, Capes. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. “He is evidently a friend of Mrs. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream.
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