He knew not how to act, urged as he was in two directions. But he was not a father one could make much of. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. Go out there and head him off, will you? Tell him anything you like, but don’t let him in, and don’t tell him Melusine is here. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. That terrible Young Person! she’s vanished. 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.
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