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. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. Mrs. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike.
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