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"There's Sharples," cried Quilt. I know all about it. 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. The guards, horse and foot, and constables formed a wide circle round it to keep off the mob. ‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. ‘There is no question of a dispute. Only him big hoss padlock—noting else.
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