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. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. At this moment, the bell of Newgate began to toll, and was answered by another bell from St. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. "I know you'll not deceive me.
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