I don’t know. I was sitting up, lamenting your departure, dear Thames, when, hearing an odd noise, I went to the landing, and, by the light of a dark lantern, saw Jack Sheppard, stealing up stairs, followed by two men with crape on their faces. The Times slipped from his fingers. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. To tell Ruth anything, it would be necessary to tell her everything; and I cannot and you must not. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it.
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