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. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. Having ascertained by the breathing which room Thames occupied, he speedily contrived to fasten him in. I went to the theatre that night.
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