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V. When he could find words, he tried by the most urgent solicitations to prevail upon the constable to let him out. 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. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated.
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