"Somebody ought to get hold of that young man," said Prudence, grimly, as she nodded in Spurlock's direction. 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. Her voice recalled him. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience.
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