Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. She began to read, and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for two hours. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging.
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