’ Too late he saw his error. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. 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. ’ Relief flooded Melusine. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands.
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