He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. “If you speak—farewell. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. What befell Jack Sheppard in the Turner's House 408 XXII. ’ He only laughed. ’ The fellow seized on this. There is worse to come. They ascended by a lift to one of the upper floors, passed through a long ward, and finally came to a bed in the extreme corner, round which a screen had been arranged. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. I can’t even make myself care. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. CHAPTER IX.
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