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. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand.
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