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. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. “Is there any urgency?” The doctor bent over his patient, who seemed to have fallen asleep. You've betrayed yourself, Thames. "It is easy to make an assertion like this," said Thames, contemptuously.
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