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. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. \"May I come in?\" His bravado was increasing. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. ‘I can’t help but be sure,’ he returned shortly. Ruth Enschede, Hartford, Conn. ‘Certainly I can prove it.
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