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 see, unlike you, mademoiselle, your cavalier here would not wish to be arrested. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. ’ Melusine sat slowly down again, looking him over thoughtfully. “You say you want a vote,” said Mr.
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