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. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. "Lost no time on the road—eh!—I didn't expect you till to-morrow at the earliest. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith.
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