“There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. 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. “What he had was altogether insufficient. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. ‘I dare say the best plan will be for me to bring her to see you, after all.
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