“To me it seems serious enough. 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. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. “Yeah. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it. And you shall have a share of the gold for yourself. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Well, that’s the situation. Supposing you take them and read them? You might be able to tell me why I felt disappointed. Mesdames Thierry and Poussaint appeared delighted to meet Gerald, and he was obliged to do the pretty to their daughters too. Am I going to die?” “I am afraid that you are in a dangerous state,” Courtlaw answered gravely. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station.
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