Spurling stood her negro attendant, Caliban; a hideous, misshapen, malicious monster, with broad hunched shoulders, a flat nose, and ears like those of a wild beast, a head too large for his body, and a body too long for his legs. "It is droll," he said. 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. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture.
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