Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. Apparently he thought it very much worth while. I have said good-bye to it all. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across 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.
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