’ Chapter Ten ‘I am come on a mission of some delicacy, ma’am,’ Gerald said calmly to the old lady. I'd a good many things to say to you, besides—but you've put them all out of my head. And, now, to find a messenger. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. 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. “To the best of my belief, I have not a single English acquaintance in the city.
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