It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. 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. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. She was given a glimpse of his soul. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Everything was blurred.
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