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. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch.
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