The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock's face. "Yes, yes," replied Edgeworth Bess. 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. "Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. "Some one must have assisted him. "So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. It was so hopeless to put it to them. “We have come too close together for me to believe it.
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