"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. 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. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave.
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