255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. Besides this, each had a large black patch over his right eye, and a very queer twist at the left side of his mouth, so that if their object had been disguise, they could not have adopted better precautions. 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.
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