The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. What!—add another drop to her cup? Who knows? Any day they may find me. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing.
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