A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. " "Who are they?" inquired Sheppard. ‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. She hoped fervently that Martin had not divulged his crush to Brown. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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