A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. At the same time Sydney and Brendon also vacated their places. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. .
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