Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “John. I'll see. One of the reasons why I decline to talk is this: that boy's punishment will be enough. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years.
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