All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in. "Ah! traitor!" cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol. Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. But she did not in the least want to do that. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. That really settles about that. 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.
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