"You're wanted. Sheppard is one, no doubt," observed 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. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. Non. " "On the contrary, if that is a specimen, they must be poets.
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