He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. There was no response. 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. He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. “Beats me. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building.
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