The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. Let me recommend a glass of wine. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. Some rustic hand had written upon the door "JACK SHEPPARD'S CAGE;" and upon the wall was affixed a large placard describing his person, and offering a reward for his capture. “You’re very nice, both of you,” she said gently. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. She had a nut-brown skin, a swarthy upper lip, a merry black eye, a prominent bust, and a tun-like circumference of waist. Sheppard, struggling to get free. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood.
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