The trio finally arrived home at 3:48 in the morning, and she saw lights that indicated the awareness of some of the nosier Beck neighbors. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. 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. "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood.
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