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The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. ‘She’s gone. 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. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink.
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