“Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. It would make my wife very happy. ” Ann Veronica read this letter through with grave, attentive eyes. She was nearly dead. It would be the culmination of her plan. E. 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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