“You may not leave. “Sold again,” she remarked. The manager, however, who stood in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced the first few bars of the music. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. It is in the lower cupboard.
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