“Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. Griffin, who held the same office in Westminster Gatehouse were left in the Lodge. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. 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. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now.
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