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. They took their places at a distant table. This was irregular. "What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone. ’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. CHAPTER III.
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