Sheppard," cried the thief-taker, as he slipped a pair of handcuffs over Jack's wrists, "for the help you have given us in capturing your son. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. My, um, my curfew. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. Jack Sheppard's Quarrel with Jonathan Wild. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. Half after six. “In any case, I decline to see you alone.
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