"Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir," observed Shotbolt. You know how stubborn they get. “Yeah, where the hell were you? My friends would have driven you home when I came home if I could have found you. 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. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. It was a different world. And Mr. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. "Before to-morrow morning I will ascertain what has become of Thames, or perish in the attempt.
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