. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. 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. He rested on one elbow. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker.
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