It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. 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 the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. “You had only to ask——” “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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