"I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. " The lad made no answer, but left the room. 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. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. "There's nothing in his clothes. ’ Gerald grinned. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. Only one penny—two copies—two pence—thank you, Sir. .
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