“You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Be a good wife to him. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster.
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