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. What was the matter with Spurlock that was to keep him in bed three or four weeks? He would dig that out of the hotel manager. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. 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. In an instant, she turned on him.
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