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“I ought to have done. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. He had seldom been more perturbed. 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. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. But the girl stood outside the circle of Ah Cum's knowledge—rather profound—of human impulses.
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