” For a moment Mr. 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. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. ’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled.
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