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For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets. Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. Through the gloom he distinctly perceived the dome of St. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. The day comes when you shall regret how you have spoken to me. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said.
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