"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. Taber? There is a possibility. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban.
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