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. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. ” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose.
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