Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—" "A reward!" echoed Jack. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant.
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