The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. 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. "If," interrupted Jackson, changing his tone: "he does live. There are way-stations—even terminals. My profession has hardened me. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile.
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