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. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Ah!" he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon a small knob in the wall, "there's the spring!" He touched it, and the door flew open. They troubled no one, and as long as they did not noise themselves abroad and make a nuisance of themselves in this Protestant country, no one troubled them. He’ll never ask because I’m not in with those people, you know? Well, I guess John Diedermayer might have some connection, but, I certainly don’t. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. She was struck by a change in his appearance. I——” The door was thrown open. The doctor reached over and laid his hand upon Spurlock's heart.
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