In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. The rest of his attire was nondescript. Then her fingers moved. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. C. . ” “I suppose not. ” The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. .
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