He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He thanked God for this talent of his. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Wild, Captain?" remonstrated the other, in a deferential tone. ' 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. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. He thought of his severe attitude towards the girl who was rightly and with contempt refusing his measured help.
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