" "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. ‘I was just looking the place over when I heard you calling out. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. 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. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation.
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