On Thursday, the 12th of November, after having endured nearly a month's imprisonment, Jack Sheppard was conveyed from Newgate to Westminster Hall. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. ” “A man does,” said Manning—“a true man, anyhow. Luckily, Sir James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and gesture escaped him. . ’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. ” He held out his hand obediently. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment.
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