Mrs. Here, turnkey. In vain Wood protested his innocence. He made his headquarters at the Victoria on the Sha-mien, and generally met the Hong-Kong packet in the morning. 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. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first.
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