There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. 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. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. “I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. To return. " "Execrable villain!" exclaimed Jack.
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