They were exquisite. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. He had but to give his orders. A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state. 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. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. " "In what way, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, in astonishment. She felt the thrill race through her body. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress.
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