“Why not?” He asked. 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. ’ ‘But what a perfectly famous adventure. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Oh, wait!’ She seized Jack’s arm as he was about to go out of the room.
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